Late night conversations about sweet nothings,
I feel as though he is just -something,
Something so goofy and unique,
I smile from ear to ear as he speaks,
I stay up almost the entire night and day,
It would be easier if he were to be next to me and stay,
He says we practically read each others' minds -telepathy,
I can go on and on about his sympathy,
We make funny faces all the time,
He is what I call  -a dime,
Not a dime's worth nor it's size,
It's quirkiness and shine,
And to end this poem is hard - just in a few lines,
His eyes and smile fill the room with light,
There is not one thing I regret from these,
*-These sleepless nights.

I want to be your keeper
Offer you a safer place than this planet to live
Come stay with me, make me your home
So that if some days this planet
Rips you into shreds so tiny
That the pieces get caught in the wind
And turns you into confetti
Forever searching for its celebration
Know that I will always be home
Sitting, waiting, looking foolish in a birthday hat
So you know where to go.

I know how the final moments of my life are going to be spent. I will be sitting on a second hand couch, one I got from some yard sale after talking the woman down from thirty bucks to twenty. The couch is itchy and fills up half the three hundred a month attic I’m renting out. I’ll have some music playing in the background something slow and hazy, maybe a mix CD I got from a friend whose name has escaped me. I’ll get up only once or twice that whole night just to rub out the scratches on that CD, I’ll spit on it wipe it on my pants put it on repeat and sit back down. Its three in the morning, and much like tonight, I am just sitting trying to think of something, anything else.  The only light that falls on my clasped hands comes from the open refrigerator door; I’ve been too busy to shut it, anyway there isn’t anything in there to be spoiled. The rent is due, bills need to be paid and I’m trying not to think of all that. What I’ve chosen to fixate on is that light and how it changes with my swaying head; a spot light for my angst. As I’m swaying and thinking and not I’ll drift off. I’ve had too much to drink and am so very tired and I’ll wonder who this couch is going to make itch next.

She shot me dead on
With a pistol that
Would have looked better on a cowboy
It was too heavy for her holster
Her body weight shifted from side to side
As she walked towards me
And when she stopped just short of my body
She had to prop her hand up on her hip
It was a hot desert day and
She let her sweat drip down from
The corners of her eyes to the dip of her collar bone
And she let her mouth smile
Bigger than had seen it smile in years
She didn’t bother to wipe off
Her black gun-powered fingers
Before she touched the spot just below my neck
Where I could feel her push the bullet further in
She was a good shot
And looking up at the beads of sweat around her neck
I remembered telling her once
How she wore her tears better than Elizabeth Taylor
Wore diamond necklaces
She shot me dead on just below my neck
And I remembered telling her once
How I didn’t care for diamonds
I much preferred rubies.