Just the thought of you
makes my insides feel like someone is playing chords
on my veins and they're strumming intensely
to all the pieces of stanzas I've failed to make into songs.

And this very scenario happens thrice a day
for good luck . . .
but it seems I've just fallen out of luck
because you're nothing but gone;

disappeared into the air
like smoke
that were once embers
of a blazing fire.

And now you're just ash,
over-ignited,
and I feel like throwing up
at the sound of your name

because the pesky little butterflies
are festering in my stomach
since the electricity running through your fingers
was the only thing that could ignite them.

They're just fluttering there,
rotting,
growing old and restricted
within the lining of my digestive tract

because I can't seem to digest the very memories of your voice
oryoureyesoryoursmileoryourstupidlaugh
without wanting to cut myself open
just to let the creatures inside me free.

I just want to be free.

But now I'm trapped
under some bittersweet limestone sentiments
that are leaving my mind
just as crippled as my heart.

I was soaring, you know.
You had me flying without wings,
and now I can't even look up
from the carpet you left me crying on.

gd