i really want to talk to you,
and lie with you,
and ask you why you left without saying goodbye,
and why you chose her over me,
and why you couldn't wait just another short moment,
because i've spent a ton without you
and in that time i have realized that
i have nothing to say to you.
the glow you put into my eyes has dimmed
and the seeds you planted in my heart are dead to me.
you died the second that you sent that,
interrupting my thoughts.
and now instead of feeling your thumb run back and forth along my leg,
i feel my blood start to boil when i think of what you've done to me
and how your hand will never have the chance to move from my calf to my thigh.

your arc has left the dock and i am still on shore.
i crossed my heart that i would not try to float to follow you because surely i would drown.
instead i stood and waded in the waves for a while.
then i let the sand fall from my hands and i said my goodbyes to each grain.

you got me daydreaming
staring at the ceiling
searching for a meaning
daydreaming
waiting for the stars
and wishing on the sun

You smoked about a pack a day and you kept on smoking them because you were addicted and you kept on smoking even though they could **** you and you still kept on smoking even though they were killing you.
Meanwhile, I was loving you, unconditionally; hoping that you’d never and that’d be your last pack.
All the while you kept on smoking and I kept on loving you, but you never noticed because you kept on smoking and the smoke would blur your vision and you never saw me clearly, or maybe you did, and that’s why you kept on smoking.
Because it was better to be addicted to something that kills you rather than one that you’re killing with every inhale you take.

when the number of miles exceeds the number of beats skipped
and the number of tracks exceeds the number of skips allowed
and you're forced to hear every word spoken through your headphones
and with every lyric is a stab in the chest
and a painful reminder of the lights flashing past
and so you wipe under your eye
and try to forget his hand wrapped around the steering wheel
and how nine hours never gave us a chance

and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ******* with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it

Every day is the same thing, the same routine. Every morning I wake up earlier than I would like too, and waste my daylight inside a confined concrete building that feeds off of conformed thinking and dead end ideas. Seated at desks, row after row, are robots in training being programmed by words written on white walls with various colors, coded for correction.
          We walk the halls of so- called "social structure" like veins and arteries with no source of life. Sit. Stand. Strut. No strolling. We must coagulate with the clicks of the clock. Strive. They cut our wires and reroute them periodically. Don't soar. Stay. They have us tied down by the laces of our shoes to keep us here, to keep us from wandering, because wandering leads to wondering. We are each a 12 point letter, of the same font, standing, double spaced, staring at the same blank paper in front of us.
          Except every now and then, there's someone that gives off a little more reception than is acceptable. Between the cords connecting our control panels is cartilage, flowing through our system software is life and thoughts and memory. When our thumb drive is hooked up to our monitor, our eyes open bigger, with three cones, we see a spectrum that was once incapable. When we leave our daily life with a wrong, or right, turn we feel the drops of water falling from the sky on our hands and we don't immediately go up in flames, instead we let out a sigh of relief.
          The next day I try to install this into others, but only to be told I am simply short circuited. But I know better now, I am not malfunctioning. I was struck by lightning and now my brain is storming.