she had always kept
her own idea of him
like a bad tattoo
making sense of those blurred lines
rationalizing regrets

meet me in the gaze
bear a lawless mind armed with
infinite queries
for the key is to not peek
through the locks of broken hearts

A series
of short puffs
from a rekindled
cigarette expertly put out
on the half
reminds you of your
fastidiousness
now you feel like **** as you look
at the wreckage site
of a desk that
is your own doing
       That is what you do.

While your ego
floats like the unmelted
coffee you put in cold water
Hardly dissolvable
to anything normal
missing anything temporal
You lash out once more
waging a war
with a nation
of thoughts
You kick the furniture
to send the dust flying
       That is what you do.

You attempt to sheathe
an intricate wound
patterned on your
knuckle, as detailed as the
dystopia of your
own human agenda that
can be trivialized by just
"I haven't been myself lately"
when somebody asks
because you're afraid
they might see
you find it
                hard
          to
  belong
Slowly, the dust resorts to settle
on the bedroom floor
       And so do you.

swaying with the wind
brown arms sprout where they were cut
leaves fall but they won't
life will always try to heal
from things the roots can't speak of

the flares of my eyes
are nothing but a warning
that fire seeks the air
found in sacred cavities
of your heart and memories

long streets make tired feet
her words formed intersections
as if roads could rhyme
from the last dead end, i hope
to walk with her one more time

with faith I prayed at
your halls, awaiting advent
a priceless heaven
until they charged some coin for
a bottle of your spirit