and then
you look for
a way to
peel of your skin,
a candlestick
and a rusted
blade beside
the matchbox
because the
dreams were
too magnificent for
you to ever
grow into,
so you lie
beside it
in a corner,
let it pour out
like wandering
silver mist
from a stranger’s
lost cigarette,
too exhausted
to be another
hand-me-down;
teeming with
pride
like a writer’s
old notebook
that still smells
of old lavender
and almost
unused lipstick
and teardrops
and ink blots
and almost
unnoticed mistakes
and a little
too much sentiment,
outlawed by time,
ripped out
like a reluctant
heartful of stifling
frustration and
fragmented
with sarcastic
tenderness,
like gravel
that once
hoped to
be sculpture
in an ancient
museum of fine arts,
because, y’know,
everything
is fine
until it’s gone;
shine bright;
dead stars
were born in
the wrong
galaxy; dead
people were
merely unlucky.