the first time you see yourself
stoplight red across pavement
a shattered Christmas ornament
painting the sidewalk a traffic jam
of your disjointed pieces
you write him a letter

words spiraling from your fingertips
remind him of the fragments he left
closure is an ellipses
missing two of its bullets because
you still see all of him
but you cannot see goodbye

you see infinities of freckled chest
and lips shaped like promises
against your collarbone

when you reach for the needle
to stitch at slivers of exposure
trying blind to quiet the arias
your heart still cries to his
rest easy

the sharpness dulls
the biting empty

Turn the headlights on.

I dreamt the castle walls began to crack
and slow at first, they tumbled with despair.
The towers met the ground in the attack,
the lovely turrets fell through clouded air.
Princes on their valiant noble steeds
rode out with mortar crashing in their wake
with guilty thoughts of each unpleasant deed
and hurried prayers for maidens to awake
I dreamt the valley there began to burn
daffodils went spinning in the breeze
the peasants woke in desperate concern
each praying man went crashing to his knees
The king that night stayed dreaming in his bed
while castle walls fell down around his head

Her copper eyes strain
in the dimming midnight
as the crickets hum
in effortless flight
each heartbeat aches
for the warmth of embrace
and every nerve ending
begins to ignite

She sees New York bustle
from safely inside
the cinder-block walls
give her silence to hide
from a promise like clockwork
of whiskey-filled veins
and an unwelcome presence
in his sea-colored eyes

That caramel voice
still melts in her ears
with his oft-rehearsed script
that still dwells in fears
perhaps his gaze will narrow
to the curve of her hip
and his calloused hands will dry
her delicate tears

It hangs in the space between
our swollen lips and lies
in the air
between those hushed
and hurried whispers
and makes its home
in the war-torn collateral
left behind by four years of
misplaced trust.

It emanates from the tears I shed
in secret as you spin her
around the dance floor
and sigh into her ear
the words you used to save
for me.

It is the gentle vibration
of the shotgun
shaking between my fingers
beneath two tight-shut eyes.

It is the secrets you keep from
yourself as you stammer
some half-hearted explanation.

Perhaps it is the reason I cannot
pull the trigger.

Perhaps it is the reason I never will.

Gold coins jingle
against the curve of her hip.
September.
The spare change falls
like the beat of her
tambourine.
Milk chocolate curls
circle her shoulder-blades.
Breathe in freedom. Breathe out poverty.

Bronze pennies soak
into the rain-washed streets.
October.
Boston is cooling,
A stranger
sees a broken man tremble
and offers a steaming sandwich
and bus fare.
Breathe in freedom. Breathe out poverty.

Colored bills crumble
in her tight hip-fitted jeans.
November.
Lipstick still intact.
Thumb lifted
to the highway,
she climbs
into his truck.
Breathe in freedom. Breathe out poverty.