Weeping willow trees
Surround the grass beneath my feet
Sun rays
Blind my eyes with a soft haze
White Dandelions dancing
Cover the pain of suffering
Carved writings
Remind my head of past memories
Under the falling leaves
Words spill out of my eyes
Onto the book of lies
Thoughts of death
Contained by the strive of full filling life
Everything is ethereal

As i watched the moon disappear into the morning light
Pulling on a cigarette
I fell in love with life
As the dark sky created morning air

Your face is just a blurry picture in the back of my head instead of the only thing id ever see
Your voice is now only a faint echo in my mind rather than a scream
Your hands that once touched my body, i never feel the imprints they left on me

One day the memories will come roaring back in my head like the rivers that once flowed
And your face will be the only thing i see
Your voice, the only thing i hear screaming at me
And your old hand imprints will be the only thing i feel touching all over me.

Why cant you just be a faint memory?

He said,"I could never let you go."
She replied, "baby, you already left."

When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.

She looked at me and said,
"You should **** me
before you love me."
And so I did.

Her hands covered her *******
and she said,
"I want you to guess which breast
my father touched first."
And so I did.

The bones in her hands shifted
as she fixed her hair into a ponytail.
"You're going to promise me that
you're not going to try to fix me.
You're going to promise me, okay?"
And so I did.

Her lips would start bleeding
because when she lied
she chewed her lips.
She said, "I think today
will be the last day I live."
And I asked her for one more.

Dry blood sat on her inner lips
as she kissed me good morning.
Her voice softly cooed,
"I hope that isn't the last time
I kiss you."
And I asked her for one more.

She bled,
"All you write about are girls.
You never write about me.
All you write about are faces
without souls. What about my soul?
Are you going to
******* write about my soul?
Are you going to write another poem?"
And I asked her for one more.

Looking at me,
she ran her fingers
down her hips,
across scars,
and said,
"Too many men look at me
and see what they want to.
They look at me and see
broken picture frames
that they can repair
and put our faces into."

Our hands met
and our fingers grasped
at the pieces of ourselves
that were deeper than faces.
But it was only me
as she whispered,
"Stop,"
licked my cheek
to my ear,
finishing,
"Don't fall in love
with what you
think you see.
Just **** me."

And so I did.
And so I asked her for one more.