Empty cans punctuate my marriage now They are real but their metaphor mocks me I don’t remember when I started counting them Counting them full Counting them empty Every night counting them has become my obsession Each full can a warning Each empty can weighting my heart Every night it sinks Plummeting until it nestles with the eggshells scattered on my floors
she's in my mind only, ever in my mind. i am a beast drinking blood in cold shadows. she's on the stairs towards the gods with gold-flake mirrors on fire. i can't be soothed by their plasma flesh pixels anymore. i can't be soothed by their carbon copies. i will soon be below their real for good. in need no more of the soft same semblance displayed on the shelves. i swim in deep pools collecting aloneness on high. the romantic disaster laughter is muted. these days i can't help but feel, every now and then, that death is a great kindness in disguise, but
your name is a trigger for being wanted, but not loved all the way through. for being mirror that only reflects the good in you when you feel bad, sad or lonely. your face triggers seeing myself walking on eggshells and keeping one foot out the door in love. your hands are a trigger for being held not tight enough and not nearly long enough. your existence is a trigger of unrequited love that won’t stop or fall apart like it should.