Keeping her in my heart and mind
so tightly bound
restricts how much I
(represented by spectral oscillation)
can fluctuate, flow, reach the natural peaks
or valleys
and then recover.

My sound is in one range frequency
ignoring the warmth of the high
and depth of the low
ignoring the bass.

My music is dosed in silence.
I must elongate my spectrum
amplify my wave pattern.

Don't hate the instrument
Remove the gum from the frets.
I am strumming something
I don't know how to get music from.

Vibrating is never wrong.

Have you sipped a good old fashioned?
A perfectly crafted cocktail
One that costs 12 or 15 dollars
And is made by a man with a mustache?
It's sweet at first, almost cloyingly so
Sugary and malty and fruity.
Underneath the sweet is something sharp
The alcohol, the citrus, the bite.
Not sour, just bright and crisp.
It's a pleasing drink, dancing across the palate.
But if you pay close attention,
If you really focus,
There are the bitter notes, the astringent moments
The ones that pucker and hurt.

A good old fashioned hides the harshness,
Like the memories of a love that walked away.

...the last conversation
...the lack of apology
...the silence at your questions
...the love she said wasn't quite enough
...the kind of wedding dress you thought she might wear
...the times she didn't talk
...the times she didn't want to see you
...the times she hurt you
...the love you had
...the signs of love she rejected

...everything
...every moment
...every tear
...every joy
...all of it.
Remember all of it.

We fall apart
When our faults fall in line
And make a chasm.

We are too similar, you and I,
Too much alike in our failures
Too quiet when we should shout.

We fall apart
But cushion one another
Knowing it will be our last touch.

Just a trace
Reminding that once
Not long ago



This void had substance

The fact of your interest in me is proof
That you must be crazy,
Or I have been hiding myself well.

That fact, the one of your interest in me
Puzzles, confounds, I can't accept the logic
Do you want this lumpy mess?

Were I honest, my own faults cry loudest to me
And that you can't hear them, or can but ignore them-
I feel claustrophobic in your open mind.