In the beginning your hands were sweaty.
Nervous.

We ended because your hands dried.
You became comfortable.

Our love wasn't infinite.
You broke me into a billion little pieces.

I called to fix it but you hung up.


L.Y.

now You're attatched
to every
song I
love and
still I
let Them
play

I have seen artists
At the highest of highs
And I have seen artists
At the lowest of lows.
I have found
That at these lowest of lows
There are days
When the artist finds no other reason
To carry on
Save the fact that they feel
They have not created enough.
And this thought leaves them
With the fear and assurance
That if they die
They will remain dead
Forever and the day after.
And for this they carry on:
Waking and creating,
Waking and creating.
Until the day
When it is finally enough.

My sweet boy:
Kind like soft candies that melt in the
Warmth of your palm,
Velvet to the touch and delightful to the
Tongue.
I was wrong--
That your sweet would quell my sour and
Recoil the pucker that these poison kisses
Slathered on your lips.