Mornings sigh the remnants of nights spent dreaming
Faint whispers of a restless heart -- intoxicated, yearning
You are moonlight slipping through my fingers
Gone with the dawn but your promise of tomorrow lingers

Across from her,
on the other side of the steam
kissing a tea cup goodbye
sat an empty chair of
what could have been.
A dessert for two
with one unused spoon
and concealed regret
occupied the space
where intertwined hands
clearly should have been.
But through the veil
of fabricated loneliness
that tried to fog her eyes,
a single smile of remembering
something someone said or did
started to give her away.
Suddenly it was a child
who sat there with eyes
gleaming like Christmas
morning in the land of
maybe-dreams-do-come-true,
and everyone in the room
turned to see no one
walk through the door that
her eyes softly gazed upon
before settling on a table napkin
where she resumed writing
a poem dedicated to the one
who never showed up.

Sometimes I forget
these are demons in my room
sipping tea with me.

There are days
when I fail
to remember
the little things
that you said
always mattered.

It sits on my shoulder —
a crow
weighing down,
bending a spine
that was once
so tall and proud.

Tainted blood
of the most precious
midnights hues
flow down my arm
from where black talons
had dug into the flesh.

Red is only fit for those with passion.

Mine had gone
so long ago,
taken away
by vultures
constantly feeding
on the broken dreams
of those delusional enough
to fancy themselves
artists.

Now I live
— barely —
as one of the broken
who sit and watch
as the lucky strut in arrogance
spilling watered down ink
at the expense of our blood.

But when the moon is high
and darkness comes alive,
my heart rejoices
as my mind rages
filling empty pages
with scornful desire
hidden in the sweetest of words.

The crow sings,
haunting the night
with the melancholy song
of a soul
invaded by the moon
and haunted
by broken dreams.

In the morning light
of the arrogant sun
as the moon disappears,
the words of the night
inked in blood
become nothing
but black smudges
to the eyes of the lucky
who think that ink
is the only thing spilled
to make art.

The broken
know very well
that empty words
written in ink
wash away
like promises on sand
but desire
inked in blood
will always glow red
in the moonlight.

So rejoice,
children of the sun,
for ink is cheap
and recognition
a giveaway.

Bask in the light
for as long as you can
because fame is short-lived
and the vultures are
starving.

The horoscope says
We’re not meant to be that
Good friends is
All we ever could be
Apparently the air
Between us
Is highly conducive to
Failure in relationships
That romance
Between a Virgo and an Aquarius
Is as likely as getting a suntan
In the middle of *******
Winter.

Well, you know what?
Those astrologers
Can go ahead and kiss
My *** that you love so much
Because clearly they’ve got it
All ****** up
Like my hair after 8 PM
On Saturdays.

Why exactly does it matter
That I was born in August
A year after
You were born in January?
Is that why we don’t hold hands?
Is that why nobody knows
Including us
Exactly what the **** we are?
Is the planetary alignment
At the times of our birth
To blame for why
We could never
Have a proper date?

You see the reason
Why I’m all messed up is
Because I downloaded an app
And it told me that
It was being nice
When it said
We should just be friends.
And really
I shouldn’t care.
It’s just an app.
What does it matter?
And yes, it’s true
It doesn’t matter, still
I couldn’t help but wonder
If maybe
It’s not the only one
Who sees things
That way.

It rained in the kitchen this morning.
Oh, what a mess!
You should have seen it.
The cat was furious.
Your breakfast was ruined.
And the tea couldn't be saved.
I wanted to be upset.
I wanted to cry.
I tried so hard to make you breakfast.
But then I noticed you weren't here.
And I realized I didn't really care.
So I left everything as they were.
Your breakfast is still on the table.
The tea is sitting on the stove.
I don't know where the cat went.
But I'll be gone by the time you read this.

She started dancing
barefoot and soaked in the rain.
Doctor's note -- Cancer.

The stars fell from the sky.
A rain of shimmering dust
that filled our lungs with fear
and made our hearts heavy
with all our broken dreams.

The story splits to
two separate fantasies.
I'm drowning in yours.

I drew a line across the sky
And told myself that's about as high as
I'd let you take me.
Beyond that line is when
The fall becomes fatal.
Beyond that line is when
I can't let go.
You crossed that line
Before I could stop you.
So please be kind and
Don't let me go.
Because I just realized
I'm afraid to die.

The necklace on the floor
Under the unwashed sweater
You never really paid attention, did you?
Because you were laughing
When I tried to remind you
Still you never really cared to ask
Or even wonder why
I always took the bottles home
You’re always too busy
And you never see me
You like those songs
So you never hear me
But that’s okay
Because I like to listen
And watch you drive
And I like to smile
So you don’t have to ask
About the bottles
Or remember the necklace
On the floor
Under the sweater
That I left a year ago
Before the car crash.

This heavy winter
air is poison to the land.
Flowers cannot bloom.

I will not change
even when the glass shatters
and the ruby ink spills
on the cold marble floor
where you once stood
looking out the window
talking about dreams
to the setting sun
and the lonely moon
wishing night would never end
and the stars would never die
but that in itself was just a dream
that you conjured up
in this small room
with no windows
and no doors
just icy white floors
that burn the soles of your feet
when you stand
and rip the skin off your back
when you lie
down and dream
the same old dream
of you
standing here
looking at me
hating me
killing me.

The ballerina's legs
are broken, still
the music keeps on
playing.

Her eyes
saw darkness --
a blank page.

Her pen
touched a void --
her soul.

She sat
and bled
unto the page.

A single bullet
lodged
in her throat.

I dropped a pebble
but the ground refused to break.
The sky turned sour,
its stubborn pride at stake.