you roll up
the stars
of the night sky
and look surprised
when you can't see them
through the smoke

i want to burn
the pages
i wrote about you

the smoke
stinging
my eyes
would make me cry
in the same way

sunlight staining
the windowpanes
casting cool gold
through the shutters
your hands
slipping across
my rib cage
i wish
they were warm

Sometimes I hold my hands
Out of my bedroom window
To feel the rain
Dance across my skin

Its music
Is the wind
And it moves me
Like the most beautiful
Symphony

there was a storm
one day, in the middle of spring
it fell from the sky
to reach the warmth
beating
beneath him
like a race
against the sea

it fell pirouetting
in the wind
sent by the stars
to make themselves fall
shooting
for him to make a wish
to keep a secret
to come true

and they drove everyone
far and near
away from the sound
of a billion memories
locked in the glass
of the still sea

they fell across
the trees
that were bent from the weight of the words
waiting to be wept
by the sharpest sword
clutched in his aching
hands

his left hand
fingers entwined
around the hilt
trembled
poised
over a wanting page

waiting
as the rain fell
staining his skin
with the absence of the sun
the absence of the moon
the absence of his heart

had he wished
so long ago
for his heart to depart
he would still have his soul
to lose to the silence
beneath the waves
beneath the fingertips
grazing the silk of his lover

stopped
by her widest eyes
staring at the tattoo
on his skin
from the skies
stained
burnt
by a thousand falling stars
a thousand wishes
that were too cold
and too visible
to come true

you took me to one of your favourite places
kissed my hand better
underneath the stars
and told me
how our friendship
was like the Earth's orbit
around the Sun

we keep coming closer
and then drifting away

Wrapping my hair in his fist
Reading my eyes
Like a treasure map to my soul
He can tell
When I lie
Before I do
Murmurs how he doesn't understand

I don't know
What is making me heart race
If it's not the emptiness
In his kiss

I have been writing a story
And I know the end
But I can’t write it
Because he dies

she smears
******
no. 1
over her scarlet lips
her fingers
catching
on the tears
of her fishnet stockings

kicking off
her high heels-
the ones the butcher
used to wear
when dealing with blood-
replacing them
with the feel
of the Earth
against her sole

hair lowered
innocence
removing the stain
of want
from her eyes
and filling
the windows of her soul
like the unspent tears
the girl with the scarlet lips
would never weep

could you watch me
for a moment
darling

i'm falling at your feet

pale pink
and lighter than a feather

a part of a blossom
you chose
to balance
on the handle of her front door

but she didn't notice
the way you smiled
or the way your eyes lit up
in the grey
at the charcoal
of her eyes

and all this time
you thought you knew
but now you wonder
if she was pretending
when she whispered in your ear
crushed to your side
"I love you"

angrily
you shake me
from behind the twisted tree

tender hands
becoming cruel

the ground rises up
indefinitely
to save me
from your separation
k.d

what is
the opposite
of loneliness?

i am alone
on the top
of a hill
in the spring

i have fallen back
from my friends
my toes
curling
in sands of time
moving
with the tide

i am in a room
full of intelligent
funny people
whose pitch
matches my own

i'm lying
on the dew laden grass
of my garden
and staring at the sky
with his fingers
ensnaring
my own
anchoring
me
to the spinning
earth

what is the opposite
of loneliness?

maybe no one has felt it
and that is why
no one can tell

You can't save me
With you smoke veiled eyes
Filled with honesty and deceit
Your words
Falling like the ocean
Deafens me
With their beauty
In silence
And it's not enough
Those lines
About me
In the tattered notebook
My initials
On your skin
Tattooed
And scarred
Like the rain in the sky
With echoes
Like thunder
Following the sobs
You hide behind your calloused hands
Can't you ever
Show me the lightening
Because that's the only thing
I need to see

And the thunder
From me
Is all you need to hear
But my lightening
Is what you get to see
And you think it's everything
But how can everything
Last only a second?

i was writing a list
of things i ought
to be
and when i looked through
all the letters
joined together
falling in neat lines
i realized that i had written

"be a reflection of the sky"

i think
i have been reading to much poetry
i don't know what that means

to be a writer
smother your
racing thoughts
until they break through
their breath
unable to be extinguished
by your doubting fear

to be a writer
is to stay awake
until the sun starts
breaking apart the darkness
at the edge
of the earth's seam
with an full page
of words
tangled
that you won't be able to read
when you wake up
at noon

to be a writer
is to think
not only for yourself
but for every character
locked in your soul
trying to reach out
for their thoughts
and words
to stretch across
the lined
expanse

to be a writer
is to think
for everyone else
you know
and form thought bubbles
and back stories
for the strangers
you meet on the street

to be a writer
is to see the beautiful
in the ugly
whispering
and the ugly
in the beautiful
screaming

to be a writer
is to become hypnotized
by the parts
of the people
we smile at
their eyes
the way their fingertips
trace the rim
of their coffee cup

to be a writer
is to dream
and remember
to dream
and forget
everything
we meant to say

to be a writer
is to read
a billion words
of a million
others
to memorize
the curve
of the pen in a sentence
the neat font
in a book
holding
so much emptiness
that it fills you

to be a writer
is to choose to drown
in doubt
because all the stories
you read
and right-
even if they aren't
real life-
aren't always nice

to be a writer
is to love words
and to hate them
love him
or her
and to hate
him
or her
found in seperate others
a cycle
of their ghosts
haunting us
like the time
slipping away
too fast

to be a writer
is to choose drowning
over living
just to see
the sunlight
flickering through the waves
and feel how the shadows
it's absence feels across your skin

to be a writer
is to always begin
but sometimes
leave the end

I am too much of a coward
To ever hurt you
So I let you believe
The definitions you make
Of the words that I say
My pride
Barely allowing me

I will never say
That I love you
Because I know that one day
I will probably take it back

But I see the smile
In your eyes
Smugness
A secret
You think I love you
And I am too much of a coward
To tell you that
I don't

the old people
advised
the young people
to never
trust someone who lies
or who talks badly
about someone
that they love
or barely know
but the young people
never listened
and now
they don't trust
anyone

there was a creek
that ran by
his cheek

spilling
blue
tears
across
an alabaster
neck

make it crack
like the man
who fell
from the wall

and watch
the knights
and their
white
white
horses
trying
to save the day

and there will
always be empty
wasted
pages
between every
poem
or sentence

dropping

like rain

and it's
more than okay
because there
is nothing worse

than