warm black coffee syrup
down my esophagus
it's a shame
you kinged me when you did
because i have more to offer
than those sweet mint nights
out in those cars
and as much as i wish
i knew how to whisper
to the bees,
I'm glad I can't
I'd rather keep the sting a mystery

I hate to sleep in my own bed-
it is already filled with ghosts
and everything plastered on my walls
is a reminder of everything
i have failed to achieve

your elbow excites me
because the angles
tell me stories of when dew
settled on grass

but those stories are
strictly for my dreams