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.