You and I
will never be anything more than
a disaster.
A part of us,
the past us,
lie dead somewhere we can
never go back to even if we wanted to.
We have become
nothing.
The poison has sunk in and has
let any possibilities for anything
steady or consistent 
completely impossible,
and we are
nothing.
I've been hollow and empty,
but I've come to form a
liking to it.
I don't want love.
I don't.

Nothing

is exactly
what I want.

I have passed you by
Many times before,
And with each and every time
I wish I would have
The ******* courage
To say more than
Pitiful mutters
That sound like meaningless words
When we get the chance
To speak.

You're in my head when I see movies
You're in my head when I read lines
You're in my head when I exhale
You're in my head when I see lovers
And I'm probably not even in yours.

One cigarette
Is usually all the time
I have,
Burning my seconds
And words as I try to
Come up with
Something
For you...

It's funny how many
let the killers in
But block out the possible
Opportunities
with the smoke-

Oh god,
is it silly of me
To want something
to spark from these
Week old ashes?

Stick me between your teeth
And burn me,
Inhale me,
to the filter.

I always hated my freckles.
They sat on my face like splattered paint, something everyone noticed. Some girls would gawk at them and I remember thinking, “if only I could peel them off like stickers and give them away.” Their words went in one ear and out the other. My desire to have plain cheeks was screaming so loud I almost couldn’t hear their compliments.
You were different.
It was our first date. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of your perfectly chiseled face and almost missed it when you said, “your freckles.”
I had spent so much time on my hair and choice of clothing, and the one thing you noticed were my freckles. I hoped you wouldn’t talk about how many I had or ask why I even had any or what I did to make them look so faint or—
“They’re extremely cute.”
That’s all it took. My train of thoughts halted on its tracks and might have even started moving backwards in confusion. Your words didn’t go in one ear and out the other. They stayed there and sunk into my head, making themselves at home.
I heard you say these things time and time again, each time only feeling lovelier. You would trace my freckles with the tips of your fingers as you whispered how many beautiful constellations you could make out on my face without having to take a single step outside. You kissed each and every one until you had kissed them all twice and we were laughing out loud. You told me how each one was so lucky to be with me forever and that you could only hope for the same.
Then one day you left without warning. You placed the three bittersweet words on my shoulder and left a kiss on the right corner of my lips, then my cheek. When you kissed my cheek I was only left with my freckles. I was left with me. And just like that, I hated myself again.
I cried like a child that day and the many days that followed.
After a week, I finally got the courage to look myself in the face. I walked into the bathroom and quickly rinsed my puffy face with a cold, wet washcloth. I set it down when I was done and looked up. I saw my cheeks and the constellations you had made up on each side. The memory of you struck the worst kind of pain upon my heart and I broke down for the hundredth time. I looked up to try and see the stars again, but I only saw my tear drops smearing the splattered paint that had been sitting on my face all along. I always hated my freckles.

I am quite fond of
walking down the busy streets
filled with intricate trinkets to buy and
unique people to see, and of
running through the markets
like a nomad among
unknown souls.
But
more than anything,
I miss the green mountains that
run as far as the eye sees,
and the vast, blue sky that races
with the summer breeze.
I remember rides in that old, white truck;
grandfather always gripping
the steering wheel through the endless
twists and turns.
The trees within vision would all blur together,
blending their leaves as if
Mother Nature's paintbrush
was glazing the car window
with several shades of green.
When the truck came to a stop
the dragonflies floated over to rest
upon the rear-view mirrors
while the butterflies dances among the trees, and
I would scurry out of the vehicle
to see the view of the
quiet mountain-tops
as the rattle of cicadas
hummed past my ears.
What a breath-taking sight it was,
and still must be.
High above the world,
away from all the fuss,
feeling as if one
truly
existed.
A brief moment of winsome reality...
so rare, but indeed,
so real.
Oh how I wish
I could exist
like so,

forever.