I woke up one day and breathed in your cologne
even though only one side of the bed was warm
even though only one side of the bed left
the shadows of dreams and fingerprints of nightmares.

And later, when my bed is made and both sides are cold and pressed,
I heard your laugh when I pushed my
hair behind my ear, distant.
     close.
Soft, even though my windows are locked and frozen shut.
Evident, even though my breakfast
is a black cup of coffee
and humming to myself.

But I put my hair back in front of my ears and go to work.
Where I taste your words
with breaths in and out.
I turn them over, sweet, truthful,
unlike my black coffee that I use
to drown out, to block out,
     to
          close
               out
what is true on my tongue,
between my teeth and sitting on my lips,
ever whispering without sound.
And I can't stop breaking apart your
words in my mouth
so I can taste each
     syllable.
But they are dull, old tastes that I beg to stay fresh,
but you are not here.
     And I cannot
     swallow
     your
    perfect
    words.
They tease and tickle my throat.
     sweet.
But unreachable, no matter
how many times I try to unravel
the truths on my tongue.

By the end of the day, on my couch-I am tired from your laugh
between the strands of my hair,
but an unreachable shadow;
and I am tired from your words
that are sugary and ****
     and distant because I put them
in my mouth months ago.
And even though I want to close my eyes,
I do not.
Because your face on the pillow next to me
taunts me behind my eyelids
and your fingers on my belly
are just beyond reach when I lay down
and your breath in my ear
is too cold on my ear.

And if I let it ,your memory will
never let me live.

When it's dark in the city,
I like to take off my glasses so that everything blurs together
And I can't tell where the lines start and end.

It's like the world becomes a painting,
One with globs of oil coming off the canvas
And you can make it look like anything you want it to be. 


And if I twist my neck around, 
I can see everything that I can imagine.
Like one where someone is in love with me and if I don't want blood under my tongue, 
There doesn't have to be.

One where I can walk surely and I don't have to take off my glasses to feel safe.


I can touch the halos around the street lamps with my fingertips because of the peaks of paint and I can sleep at night because of the dark sky. 
Sometimes you are there and sometimes I am alone and the same painting can mean a million things.

A million beautiful things if I let it.

435

Much Madness is divinest Sense—
To a discerning Eye—
Much Sense—the starkest Madness—
’Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail—
Assent—and you are sane—
Demur—you’re straightway dangerous—
And handled with a Chain—