Poetry takes time and imagination
              apparently, I don't have those.

When was the last time you heard silence?
When was the last time nothing sounded like everything?
When was the last time you could hear the sadness in silence, or the comfort in it?
Tell me, when was the last time you felt it in the air, heavy and light and looming and drifting at the same time?
Tell me, when was the last time you knew that the silence after "I'm ok," shouted "that's a lie"?
Or when the silence after "I'm alright," made you feel secure?

**Now tell me, when was the last time silence was ever really silent?

I have become angry.
I was sad, and now I am angry.
I have been told you pass through stages of grief
When the one who got away is indifferent
Indifference hurts.
So does anger.
And anger is building inside me like a volcano
Anger is rising to the surface like burnt milk forgotten on a stove
Anger is seeping into my veins because I have been nothing but nice
Nothing but convenient
Yet
You make me feel like I am a bother
A stain on your carpet you cannot wash out
A nail sticking out of the furniture, just a little
Out of place
You make me feel out of place
I am right where I need to be
Right where I belong
You do not get to kick me out because I have become
Inconvenient
I won't accommodate you any longer
I have been nothing but truthful
Honest
Myself
And you do not get to make me feel any less than that.
I will not stoop so low.
I will not bow down.
I am here to stay.
This is my life.

Din of voices crowding out thoughts
Thoughts constructed of safety pins and toothpicks held together with spit
Spit dribbling out of the hungry mouth that yearns for companionship
Companionship which is desired but not truly felt
Felt people saunter past, their fabric feet barely touching the ground
Ground into a pulp are the vicious spiders of memory
Memory is a tactile thing that turns in contemporary web
Web of truths spinning and spinning beneath agile fingers
Fingers dug into temples' throbbing ache of words words words
Words are not enough to describe this mortal dullness
Dullness like the din of voices crowding out
**Thoughts

I cannot stop burning bridges
Watching them burn makes me feel safe
from you and me, ever crossing paths again

I cannot stop building walls
Putting them up so high
So you can't ever climb up
and I can't ever climb down

I cannot stop trying to destroy this love
But I can't ever succeed
unless you destroy yours

So in the end, we're both alone
and everything is fair

But nothing is fair in war and love
and one of us is sure to end up
with more than just a broken heart

When you walk in
they look at me,
but you don't.

You don't see
me anymore,
too lost in her
eyes to find mine.

I see you, though,
almost immediately,
and my head begins
to spin until the room
is nothing but a blur,
until all that makes
sense is the one truth:
I'm not over you.

Surely I must be,
it's been months
but seeing you there,
hearing your laugh
as you greet others,
it all comes rushing
back and I don't know
what to do; all I know
is that I'm not over
you, us, I never
really was.

Her hand slides
down your arm and
makes a home within
your own palm, and
suddenly my own
hand twitches, a chill
runs down my spine,
for that hand she's
holding used to be
mine.

Suddenly my face
flushes and it becomes
difficult to breathe, as if
reality had slapped my
cheek with it's cruelty,
as if it had been planning
to rub the sight of you
two together in my face.

When you walk in
they look at me,
but you don't.

You haven't looked
at me in months, and
I can only vaguely
remember how it felt
when you did, like I
was soaring through
baby blue skies on
a bed of clouds.

I was so lost in the
magic, so in love with
the idea of forever, I
guess that I didn't see
what was the apparent
downfall, that you and
everyone else did, of
what we used to call
us.

Now she's entwining her
fingers with yours, her head
resting on your shoulder
when she gets tired of
holding it up in conversation,
but mostly, now she's the one
who gets to call you
hers.

She gets to hold you in the
middle of the night when
you bring her to the kitchen
to grab a midnight snack;
she gets to laugh wildly
as the two of you attempt to
slow dance to classic rock
early in the morning, just
as you've woken up; she
gets to hold your hand
during take off when
she's too scared to feel
alone; and she gets to tell
you she loves you, whenever
she feels like it... whenever the
moment strikes and she can
no longer keep those three
words contained.

I, on the other hand,
get to stand on the
other side of the room
making senseless small
talk while I watch the two
of you fall further in love,
and I get to watch her feel
the way I used to when I
was yours.

When you walk in
they look at me,
but you don't.
You don't see me
anymore, but I see
you, and I still see
us.