White light.
Beams blazing like lazers as the blind slightly shifts and back
Back to darkness.
Again. White light. Black. White light. Black.
Blindness and blindness and light and black.
Back and forth.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

The End.

The best of us comes out when the rest of us is gone.

At least,
I hope that's the case as I just want to save face and get away when my days face me with the longest ways around.

The depression sets as I attempt to find my faded song's wasted namesake.
Looking for a better view of the days whereupon my incessant sighs are drawn.

Drawn like a depressive sketch,
With the pencil marks parked along the secrets to peace's faded spark.

My fallacy, you see,
I'd rather breathe within the seas than have to see these things the way they've gone,
Strung me along the heartstrings stretched so thin as to nigh be my patience with this broken masterpiece.

And so,

The best of us are broken when the rest of us are gone.

But, the best in us comes out,
When the rest of us is wrong.

I.
My mother keeps my letters to Santa
in a drawer by her bed,
and my father keeps my baby teeth
like a handful of tiny ghost  
of the innocence that has been lost.  

II.
I used to be 6 once,
I WAS MAGNIFICENT.
With arms outstretched
I could fly if I willed it;
now I barely move
without trembling.

III.
I smoked my first cigarette
when when I was 12,
and  it wasn't until I was 16
that a boy named Frank told me
I had to inhale.
I blame him for my addiction.

IV.
When I was 18
someone took something from me
that I could never get back.
I hope they keep it safe,
and sharp in their memory
so they do not forget
the tone of my voice when
I let go of my Gods
and said,
"yes."

V.
This week  someone hurt me
and I took it as punishment
for the time I cheated on my boyfriend
when I was 21;
like any former catholic,
I always have to remind myself
that I don't believe in God.

VI.
Last night I went to a party,
and a man told me
I was pretty,
I believed it for the first time in a long time.
I laid my head on his shoulder
and told him I was tired.

We had spent two days in bed,
   talking,
             laughing,
                          touching.
You said something along the lines of,
"I wonder if we're even still alive?"

When we finally left your room
the sun came pouring in
through your kitchen window;
It drenched our skin
forming silhouettes on the flat surfaces.  

Our shadows stood side by side,
I smiled and said,
"you are only as real as I am, my dear."

I guess that nothing else really does matters.

Do you remember when we
danced beneath street lights
that bowed
in the presence
of our youth,
to that hum
from power lines
that can only be heard
early in the morning
or late at night?

Lately,
much like the power lines,
I hum
but only
when no one
is listening.

I keep these feelings
like water in cupped hands;
desperate to convey them
but they slip,
drop by drop,
through my fingers
and never completely
make it to you.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Today, I made my way through the hallway,
taking the frames down,
wrapping them in old newspaper,
filling the holes they left with putty;
leaving the walls, white and bare.
Once again, erasing every trace of myself.

I walked from room to room, slowly and quietly
like a ghost without matter
trying to cling to things it can not hold.
I took breaks often, sat on the couch,
watched the grass sway through my living room window,
and wrote three awful poems.

I looked around at all my furniture,
realized how most was scratched and damaged
from being forced through so many doors…
I’m sure there’s a metaphor there,
but I’m not going to bother.

Your heart,
it is light and pure and honest...
and mine,
mine is heavy
but unknowingly and oh so sweetly
you help carry the weight

And on Sunday mornings
when you awake in my bed and you smile, yawn, blink,
stretch or even just breath,
I think,

NO, wait,

I know,
I was born just to see the green of your eyes.

Your tiny hands are a compass
not because they point
or because they fit perfectly in mine
but because I will always follow them.

Let me please always be a warm bed,
a piece of peace,
a comfort.
Soft, safe and quiet and still.
Soft like my mother was;
with her hands caressing my skin
she could heal any and all wounds.

In whispers let me sing,
"I want to tell you how much I love you,"
as your lids slowly and softly cover your eyes