If of all words of tongue and pen
the saddest are, "It might have been."
More sad are these we daily see:
"It is, but hadn't ought to be."

I seem to have sipped on too many glasses of your name
now it's all over the bathroom floor

Reduced to a puddle of "I'm sorry's" and "Oh no's"
My sadness is not a wound for you to heal
or scrapped knees for you to kiss

Bones brittle like your words
promises like radio static

I wish I knew the shades of your intentions
Your words in the dark.

everyone has Their own magic
There is no death
so nothing matters
High Style
Flash & forgive me
high button shoes
clean arrangement
messy breeding
love’s triumph
everlasting hope & fulfillment

Your image in my eye

dries and dies;

what could live in this desert place of mine?

One day you’ll have the death of me

splattered all over your stark-white shirt

the most soft and tender breath

could be lost on your face.



-She’s sitting between crumbled sheets,

bones squeaking like a cat;

the illusion of happiness-



I could never stitch you back

head and heart and limbs together

properly joined-

it would take more than my life

to make you whole again.

Banksy once said that
you die twice: when
your heart
stops
and when
somebody says your name
for the last time.

I feel immortal.