You may free yourself from self-righteousness
and even escape the conical wasteland
of numerous embittered moments
but you will never evade the sense that
all the while someone is plotting their next move.

She hums in quiet desolation,
wishing that I would stay.
Or maybe she thinks
the song is really catchy,
in which case
I’m the pathetic one.

first makes me
imagine a poem
that talks about
an ink-stained sky
and brooding clouds
and chilling air,
all of which
can be taken as
ominous signs of
impending doom;  
but that can be bad
so instead lie still
and listen to the
comforting melody
the rainstorm plays on
my old tin roof

we sit in the yard
and look at
the quiet sky
while the flowers
release their scent

you say you love
the overhead clouds
but you don’t love me

so I think of
a thousand kisses
and all those moments
I now find hard
to understand

there will be other skies

They met up.
She said: we’re done.
He pleaded.
She rolled her eyes.
He cried.
She laughed.
He sniffed.
She blew smoke into the air.
He coughed.
She walked away.

What would happen if the moon leaked?
Would there be a luminous canal
that flowed with moon milk?
Would we be able to bathe in
a shimmering pool of silver?

The failed kiss left a trail of lip gloss
across a canvas of unending emptiness

like a memory dragged from between the
pages of a second-rate novel.

Her cries were a tune that knocked at the door
but failed to pierce his tone-deafness.

He watched on but then sensed guilt
that he alone could have caused such a thing.