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I suppose it's better that way.
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So I wouldn't try to say "Hey"
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A hole grows larger in my heart.
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This is absolutely tearing me apart.
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I'm sustained by the memories I keep.
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And by the dreams that haunt me in my sleep.
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I hope you're doing alright.
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And that someone is appreciating you, holding you tight.
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a romance that we raised in the summer can only last so long
for when the leaves start falling
we fall too.

Humans are afraid of the unknown
That is why we search
Day and Night
For an explanation
of the unexplainable

I can’t remember when
I last wrote a poem with a pen
Writing once romanticised
now has been exorcised

From touching tablets or touching keys
magically
words begin
appearing on a screen

Organised as I wish
edits in an instant
easily erased
replaced or placed elsewhere on the page

A literary light show
based on binary play
then sent off to cyberspace
until another day

"I wish I was happier," she
confessed, to me, in-between
puffs and awkward silent
pauses.

"I'm not disappointed," was
all I could say, forcing
back down my throat, the "me too."

We stood there, in quiet,
surrounded by loudness. The other
few, ate, and drinking inside.

Goes back in, she kisses him.
What does he know?
Answer?
More than he's liable to make known.

I can't look at her. If I do,
I'm caught-in-love, and
stuck on the possibilities.
If my eyes can avoid you, my
dreams can stay fantasy,
not just unfulfilled.

She's tired of hearing she's perfect.
She'd rather be told the truth.
but no one that loves her lets honesty in earshot.
And I'm sick of love, lying, and
truth-telling, too.

I wish you were happier.
I wish the path of least resistance laid itself out,
before you.
I wish you'd hold my hand while we walk it, together.

I wish I could make happy,
like some folks brew beer.
I'd pour you a growler,
(On the house, of course)
and laugh at everyone else, while you drink it.

This poem is the list of
things I never thought could
make a difference.
This poem is the litany of reasons why
I think I deserve one
last chance.
This poem is the one I'd
read to you every night, if
it would change your
mind.
It wouldn't. It won't.
This poem bites, the last dying
hope of a beached shark, spying
the wave that could save it.
This poem is the black pods
we once foolishly believed were
shark eggs.
This poem knows I hate the beach,
and brought me along,
anyway.
I started this poem months ago.
It'll never really be finished.