You, my dear, are dead, I said.

I am not so, she told me.

You are, checked out, moved on, deceased!

Then why so tightly hold me?

[Inhale...]

I feel the way your body flakes
Like chipping bits of bone
I see the way your fingers quake
Whenever you're alone
I tell you that I love you, and
you always say it back
But you never lend a hand
Whenever I'm about to crack
You say that talk is wasted
Because words are so ****** cheap,
But jealousy is tasted
When I'm talking in my sleep
For fear of letting go, and so
admitting that you're dead.**

But she was done responding
to the voices in her head.

I've braved the life of living in the past,
Of caring for what never cared for me.
I've watched a hundred thousand days be flashed
like glints of sun across a choppy sea.
I've never taken tea with foreign kings,
but I could tell you tales of how I have,
and in those fleeting moments, fickle things,
my words would be your melancholy's salve.
I read my tales and stories with a head
that sits upon a swivel and a lie,
and every word I've written, thought, or said
will follow you until the day you die.
A greater sun as never shone on me
Than when I found my immortality.

They tell me I know what I'm doing.

I'm a master stumbler.

I record the sounds of my steps
along the cobblestones of thoughts
tracing me through mere minutes of my day.

I'm no predator of words,
hungrily snatching them from their sound slumber.
I've never slain a thought for
the sake of hanging its trophy on my page.

I have no brush at the ready,
no photographic,
impressionistic mind
gathering the sights and sounds
like a gambler collecting her winnings.

I could not, at gunpoint,
fire off the words to save my life,
no eloquent please,
no well turned phrases,
no sycophantic soliloquy.

I am the shell of my experiences,
my hide made only
of the ones that have hardened me.
     This is no way to love.

stone faced, sand blasted,
cemented
and half-assed,
sleeping soundly
like Pompeii
dreamless,
uninspired,
uncorrupted,
unavailable for comment.


You see, there are bones
inside of me.
Bones embracing each other,
in tired poses
laying in the dirt,
uncovered by the studious,
                                   curious,
                                   fastidious, and
                                  woefully unlucky.

Good luck cataloging your finds.
I wouldn't buy it.

meanwhile,
i am petrified
in perfect fashion
filling my space
filing my cells
and ever.  so.   ****.    slowly.
i am whole again,
rock hard abs
and chiseled jaw
Adonis
in slate stone
with chipping lungs
stand **** for the world
in demonstration of man
"This is what I was,"
     i will say,
"Proud never to change."
pigeon **** on my shoulder
and no one knows what color my eyes were

His eyes glazed over
          her art
      and missed the nuances
          small sounds
          measured movements
     Never saw it coming


Her eyes were blue
        and black
    defending him
          against her better judgment
     her face brushed
          in natural blushes
          and smokey greys
     that made me yell FIRE


They were a pristine model,
     he, a snapshot of time
     she, the painted portrait
               Je t'embrasse,
                        Marie A.


She was beautiful, and
he was happy
     to leave her hanging
     on a wall