Let's talk about the letter x.
It's one of the weirdest letters we have in the English alphabet. It's a prized letter in the game of scrabble. It's a stumper for some kindergarteners who need to know that one word that starts with it to move up a grade. It's a symbol for a spot. Sometimes it's treasure, sometimes it's a target. Sometimes, it's a word. Sometimes it's a rating of a thrill or a cheap way to get off alone with some tissues. Sometimes it makes things extra small, and sometimes it makes them extra large. Or sometimes it's a way to describe someone.
Ex.
Like an ax to the wood we severed into thousand of splinters. I never thought I'd call you by that letter. I had a different future in mind. One with yellow green and white. One with your forehead pressed against mine as I pushed out creation. One with a chalk board wall full of poetry, lyrics, and sketches of light houses with suns rising in the background.
Now all I see is a big red x over all those dreams.
My treasure map is torn and burned and I can only see the target, but will never find the way to your heart again. My scrabble board is missing letters, and as I search for a way to forget them I keep putting down the letters to your name. I can't move on, like a child stuck behind their innocence and unable to comprehend what is next. I have to only imagine our bodies touching like those two thin lines on a paper. Intersecting like a comet to the atmosphere, colliding but burning up with terrible destruction.
My poetry doesn't have rhythm, and the rhyme has gone awry. All I keep seeing are ******* x's over every line I write. Because none of them put me and you and love together again.
The letter x is so strange. It's a weird thing we chose it to be a way to describe the end of something. One line going one way, the other a different way. But somewhere they meet and for the brief encounter there is hope that the lines will curve into love. But the lines have to move on, and so do we.

I read that he lost a suitcase full of manuscripts on a
train and that they never were recovered.
I can't match the agony of this
but the other night I wrote a 3-page poem
upon this computer
and through my lack of diligence and
practice
and by playing around with commands
on the menu
I somehow managed to erase the poem
forever.
believe me, such a thing is difficult to do
even for a novice
but I somehow managed to do
it.

now I don't think this 3-pager was immor-
tal
but there were some crazy wild lines,
now gone forever.
it bothers more than a touch, it's some-
thing like knocking over a good bottle of
wine.

and writing about it hardly makes a good
poem.
still, I thought somehow you'd like to
know?

if not, at least you've read this far
and there could be better work
down the line.

let's hope so, for your sake
and
mine.

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTVWXYZ

I've had enogh of yo,
It hrts that yo said those things
and then said yo love him
dont nderestimate me

when I say I've forgotten u

You know how you wake up?
You swing your legs out of bed
and walk.
You don't look for the ground
to make sure the floor's there.
Because the floor's always there.
Until one day,
it's not.
And you swing your legs out
and instead of your feet hitting the floor,
you fall right through.
No warning
to let you brace yourself.
No signs
to let you know it's leaving.
It just
leaves.
And now, you're constantly checking the ground
as you walk to make sure
you don't fall again.
I never expected to fall right through
the way I did.
I used to wake up for you.
Now, i don't even know
how to get out of bed.

i just wanted to  pick your bones
white daisies in a field
and weave them together
a halo to float over my head
so wherever i'd go a part of you hung in the air
a soft constant breeze.

and maybe you'll let me.
maybe you'll string your veins like lights to light my journey
when the cobbled streets are black
and your back in rink-a-**** town
and i'm off getting my wings.

you like to breath air into my dreams,
lifting my balloons, and even though  you'll be here in this gray
town you never
made me feel sorry.

sorry that i've got to leave.
and maybe you'll give me your hands too,

so when it's colder than a winter month, i can wrap my fingers in them
and i'll be warm on the inside
too

Dear NASA,

I read somewhere that voluptuous women
do well in zero-gravity environments.
This makes complete sense to me
(and the “ladies.”)
Trust me, I've seen the pictures—
and we want that.

Hear me out.

Gravity's a drag.
Bras are too ****** expensive.
I feel like I’d manage to look twenty-five
for another twenty-five years
if I could somehow
avoid the sandbaggage
that I'm doomed to inherit.

It's a comfortable thought
to picture the once distressed,
top-heavy lady population
floating in ecstasy,
brassiere-less and beaming—
soaking in a  freedom so sweet
that a word just couldn't do it justice.

I think I speak for the whole
of my curvy comrades  
when I say that we'd appreciate
your cooperation in getting the lead out
as you breach the final frontier.

Because let me level with you:
there are plenty of things in this world
that can bring a girl down—
our most enjoyable assets
should not be two of them.

Please join us in the fight to stay ****.

With the warmest gratitude,

B