Does it ever cross your mind? The thought of losing me, I mean. Does it sting like fire ants? Painful but not serious.

I don't know when or how the butterflies in my stomach turned to wasps, stinging the muscles, making it sore and burn but I swear at one point, we were the most beautiful human chromosomes paired....

or was it always an option? Leaving me, I mean.

Darkness ate up the sky
Concealing the stars from sight
My anticipation rose like waves
And then there was light

Fireworks burst in the heavens
A thundering serenade
Reds blues yellows purples
Joined in an explosive parade

They caused the night to sparkle and gleam
The beauty struck deep in my heart
In my amazement I realized the glittering sky
Resembled a work of art

Your soft lips
Caress me
As I fall deep
Inside your spell
I see red
Roses and cheeks
All over me
Resting on my body
As I lay in this
Pool of blood

After the door shuts and the footsteps die
the truth comes out that I wish to hide
skeletons stack up and gather in my closet
pulling the truth out of a tight lipped pocket

Closing my eyes wishing it all away
wishing I could run instead of stay
I hide and hide my feelings from you
hoping you have the same feelings too

I open the door and there you are
my own personal shining star
you don't have to be anything to gain my love
your love is as pure as a dove

Stealing my heart with all you are
I wish this love to go very far
but you took my love
and gave it a huge shove

Tearing it to all kinds of shred
making me feel buried and dead
I take the pieces left and run
feels like you shattered my heart with a gun

Sitting in my own puddle of tears
reminiscing all of our greatest years
The damage is now over and done
trying now to make again myself one

You ask of me
why are your
poems so sad?
i whisper.
Even the moon
shining in full wonder
has a darkside
that it keeps hidden.
All the countless stars
that watch over
us since the first night
fade in the
waking hours of day.
I think what
you really wanted to ask me
is am I as sad as my poems?
I answer with a poem
Ask the moon
what it has seen
Ask the stars
what they have
witnessed.
And know that
even poems
are only white
Until the dark ink
spills onto the paper.