I have to constantly tell myself that I didn’t love him.
I used him
he used me
for comfort, and comfort only.
I’ve only ever loved one human being in that way on this planet. 

And it’s okay
because when I tell myself I didn’t love him
I know we were in the same place.
Our chests were both hurting from someone else
hammering
nails
into
our
hearts.
We needed each other then
but we didn’t love each other ever.
A.p.

Steady, pulsating drips
Form a cacophony of tiresome
Drifts of time
Winding down the twirls of
His paintbrush the trials of
Liquid resonance.
Pattern-less,
The degenerate.
Out of touch with reality,  
The artist,
In shambles.
Dialysis.

Your spine curves like a saxophone,
I intend to play our symphonies
on the pearls that decorate your skin,
That trumpet in your throat sings
loud and full of life,
Please share it with me tonight,
The metronome across your chest
is a warm reminder of who I have
been looking for,
We do not even notice the broken
strings we share in our necks,
looked past tongue tied apologies
in the midmorning outros,
lay with me here tonight,
as if we were a chorus,
in just the right tune

A boy you can't resist
He pretends feelings exist
How long will you linger
He has got you wrapped around his finger
You're thinking everything is going so right
He has got you wound pretty tight
It's never going to get better
Eventually you will end up reading a dear John letter
You really need to think twice
Listen to the words that have been given as advice
Sure it may be just an opinion
But they're from real experiences they've been in
There is so much you haven't seen      
My dear you're just eighteen

I wanted my life to be a poem.
That's what all of this is.
I date you
Because you fit into poetry
The way dark things do.
And you make me happy
But the truth is
I'd love you if you were only
A sad poem.

Cigarettes capture
My attention
Because they're poetic.
Poets smoke.
A cigarette fits in poems
Like writers pen in palm.

I listen to music
For the lyrics
Which speak to me
In the way I like
To speak.
For the drums
That now only mean you.
For the guitar
In the closet
I take out
On occasion.
For the rhythm
That makes my pen dance
When it would rather sleep.

I have the poem in my head
And I guess I'm writing it.
But you're writing it too.
So is she.
And him.
Mostly me.
But the cigarettes
Write too.
Disappearing through
Your lips--
Ash appearing on the page.