skies, that are the color
of the water left behind,
after doing the dishes.

clouds, that are so hope-
lessly pathetic. they hang
there; kinda doing their own
thing.

kisses, that are so full of
passion, and fill the space
of a thousand words.
no grief. just understanding.
understanding that makes your
lips sore.

raincoats, that look poetic.
unbuttoned, and collars flapping
limply. rainy days do no justice.
red raincoats, and dreams of
naughtiness.

cigarettes, smoked to the end.
an orange flame, in the darkness.
leaning against the wall; a careful
posture that's been practiced, and
eventually mastered.

roses, with thorns cut off
with a pair of kitchen scissors.
shaking hands, and nervous smiles.

poetry written on napkins, delivered
with blatant awkwardness. a messy scrawl
with black biro; words that say much more
than a mouth could.

For a week straight, I avoided going to the supermarket, even when my stomach grumbled and the fridge stayed empty and lonely. And instead, I looked through my binoculars from the tree house my dad had built with a few planks of wood, nails, and a rusty hammer. A place he’d built before I was put into my mother’s arms and put into a bright blue cradle. Blue as the shirt Abigail was wearing, the same day the cops busted her for giving head to my best friend Isaac in my Toyota Camry. Right in the middle of the parking lot of the supermarket, as I bought pancake batter and cage-free eggs for breakfast.

And Abigail never ate that meal after she spent a week wasting away in a cell block, reading JD Salinger stories over and over, as though his words could heal her marks and bruises.

Today, I made pancakes and eggs for breakfast.  I waited for the TV to load a Netflix show, hoping Abigail had learned from her mistakes. She passed me the salt and pepper shakers, as I lit a cigarette, sat in a chair, and smoldered.

Abigail put her face in her hands, cried for a bit, even reached for the ***** bottle.

We went to the supermarket later, walked down one aisle, and picked up meat and potatoes. As we headed for the self-checkout line, I passed the breakfast section and saw the pancake batter and the eggs. Abigail crumbled to the floor, said, “I’m so sorry.”

After that, we never touched breakfast.

I have written you one-hundred and twenty-six love poems
On the backs of forgotten receipts and used napkins
Among scribbled equations on calculus exams
And yet still you do not care for me enough
To even write my name
On the front of a tiny strip of paper
Let alone the palm of your hand
Or where I would like it to be
At the center of your heart

I have written about you on napkins in coffee shops and restaurants that traverse continents.  I've written your name on foreign pages in cities you'll never be, at least not with me. I've etched your name onto trees but your initials always feel out of place alongside my own, or at least that's how it seems. You have always traded a taste of ink for words you'll never let me read. You're darkened melancholy that you think tastes too sweet. You had me, oh you had me and I've written down the verse. But the tape is skipping, the record is broken, a melody and a curse

So many poems
Written on napkins
And trashed

So many on books
I never found

And many more
In my mind, lost
In the wake of a sleep

Would now be yours
Had I deemed them precious

i wrote letters
on the back
of coffee shop
napkins with ideas how
to make you
*stay