In the time it took me to start over
I died by your side with closure
on my self-imposed solitude
from every soul in a fighting mood
with inherited axes to grind
in line
to use the men’s bathroom
during the last game,
immune to the toxic byproducts
of extended cab pick-up trucks
circling the drain of
made up
settling sentiment trickling
through the air connecting
you lungs with mine,
an irredeemable line
in the low tide sand
and
inescapable memory holes
fret the yet again brethren
sending their regards
while they take up arms
against mended fences
wrestling
with a cost,
the interest,
and late fees eternal
grown from the infernal
jest we let foment
into rent checks and
a stale hex
revealed next
to nothing
in a book I did not write
that you read all the same

Its one in the morning As I lay here in my bed
Wishing you could just see the thoughts that go through my head
While trying to ignore the fact that I have once again been crying
All because I can feel that whatever we are is dying

There is a heavy weight in my chest
And I'm dreading having to get up in a few hours in order to get dressed.
But I'll say nothing about how I feel
Until we get to share another meal because that was the deal.

I am afraid
Of many things I could say.
And so are very many others.
However, you shouldn't belittle yourself,
Should you feel this way.
For it is quite normal.
I feel, I do not abide by my own rules
So you see,
I am afraid I am a hypocrite.

Tangled in all the

things I think about, I lose --


more and more contacts.

An old telephone
hangs unused on the wall
What voices it heard
as people made their calls
fade into the ether
scattered electrons all

Dashes to dashes
dots to dots
All those things once said
now forever lost

A to Z and all the letters caught between
that line themselves along the shelves
and rest between the bookends,
they don't have the words I need.

A to Z, and all the letters caught between
I can't fit them together anymore,
I can't make them sing,
curved lines and crescendos to ****** the ear
with honey soaked harmonies.

They fall from my lips and slip
under my meaning,
tired and worn,
crumpled in my hands.
Or is it my hands that are tired
of these frail words,
showing the ****** remnants of ambition?

I put them back until I need them again,
for something simple,
a conversation with a net.
Hellos and how dos,
the pitter patter
of banter
on my tongue
designed to hide the heart.

So I will let them rest
until they sing to me again,
or I find a new alphabet.

Alot o ****
spe akstot
hehe art
**** hi sh
ere poe
m hwisp
ers sweetno
things to
thee lbo
w.