"Are you happy?", I asked him. "Yes I am. And you?", he said "Yes I am happy.", I replied because finally, I stopped writing poems about you, I whispered.
if your words were flowers i’d water them forever each one is still rooted in my heart but i sit in our sunken eden and cry, with plastic peonies in a jar
you let the pills flow down your neck and wait. wait for the life to grow and the pain to slow. wait for that feeling when you will know. but certainty is a story. a distant object bobbing across the current. and that comfort becomes an absence so deep it resounds like cymbals in your ears as you sleep.