In washed out moments
In choking mist
The years roll
With weight of ocean's flow
It's surface stretching imperfect reflections
Over eyes drawn
to wherever darkness gathers.

this shy white sun does not shine down on me.
the perfect curve of your cheeks
is the only thing to be bathed in a new gold.
and your face turns sideways, shining silver,
your lips curve upwards,
bruised and reddened and bitten.
cheeks of rose, cheeks of pink,
boiling blood in a heart of ceaseless wonder.
and your mouth; it break the dawn itself
with the fiery stars you spit;
we speak of fire
and the sun burns brighter in the morning.
there is no boldness to this dawn;
it has broken windless and calm,
and all the dark has run defeated to the seas;
to the seas where our fire was quenched.

You took Zoloft.
It killed your ability to ******.
You were stubborn, though.
It
took
two
hours
for
you
to
come
and
despite
my
protests­
you
couldn't
give
it
up.
So I had to.
Your couch was disgusting.
Your ******* on my skin
Was even worse.

They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.

Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.

The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.