I recall how sweet
my name sounded
as it gently rolled
                              off your tongue,
each syllable
playing a note in the harmony
you created
in calling to
me
gently;

can't you just,
one more time,
put the vinyl on,
crackling and
popping
six
simple alphabetical
chords?

I would play
it on
repeat.

ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom

Twisted
Burning
Toiling
Anguish
Wrapped,
Concealed
Deep
Beneath
D­isconcerted
Contortion
Attempting
Feigning
Effervescence.

How badly
do I wish to love away
your
self-loathing,

to kiss
away your
ignorance,

to
hold you
through
your dissatisfaction-induced
convulsions;

cry away
your demons
and hate,
flushing
the pain
into my
skin.

Life feels
so
simple
as my
hand
hangs
lackadaisically
out my window,

wind rushing through
my    slightly    parted
digits,

inhaling the taste
of
spring,
pollen and sunshine;

just dreamin'.

The scorpion
knows
not truly
of the
consequences
following
the
sweet, poisonous,
painful
venom
he
exerts
without a sound
into
his
prey;

venomous,
dangerous,
penetrating
the naivety
of his
victims
without even a
moment's
notice,
it's
done;

slithering
away
before
he can assess
the damage,
the
carcass of
the unfortunate
accidentally
infected,
left to rot

alone.

It was a Sunday night,
a Sunday night that was
truly a Monday morning,
but the darkness,
coupled with
the heaviness of my body's
desire for rest,
to me it still felt like
nighttime.

The sweetly scented candles
flickered silently,
their aroma
filling my nostrils
as the sounds of
a
cliché romance movie
filled my
eardrums.

The dry red wine
poured smoothly
from
        the bottle to
                             my empty glass
        for the fourth time
   that
night.

Yes, it was a Sunday
night,
the pain and miscomprehension
clouding my mind
more than
another glass or
another hit
ever could.

How heavy
it all
    weighed


down
on
me

that
Sunday night;

That Sunday night,
I knew
I loved you,
but you never
loved me
back, and

That
Sunday night,
in the
darkness,
I sipped slowly,
blinked softly,
and
out
came
the
tears

that
I
had
resisted

for
many
nig­hts
just
like
this.

It was a Sunday night
when I finally
cried.

Again.