We watch the ink stain my fingers
as you lay bleeding in your verbiage.

It is night, a starry pitch black affirmation.

Curling pens trapped in a resting place of
wrong and right.

Inside the fireplace, dissolving laughter
with each stampede of "uh huh and yeah".

Memories pass back and forth multiple times,
and words are written from ticket stubs,
crumbling flowers and photographs.


Sleepwalking into planets,
this is what we have.
This is what is left of
half torn pages and a
conversation between friends.

I hold my breath in the way you read your favorite book,
each syllable between pages 2 and 401.
Here, stories are procreated in wombs of long forgotten worlds.

Sometimes, we are wounded best in the quiet.
In the heart of every road taken,
life gives way to standing still on the weight of discussions,
cheeks pressed firmly into dirt.

Humming in the wake of silence,
aborted telegraph wires have shelter
from the rain.

Peeled skin puzzles place themselves within the blackout newspaper rants.

I spilled my guts on your best shirt, light blue.

Faded stamps
make nests inside
envelopes that carry
the throat of
swollen notes.

Yesterdays run down
like honey against the edge
of your mailbox, I've sent the
years that never left you.

When did you move towards
the echo of reoccurring reflection
to remind yourself to breath again.
I thought it was strange too,
for the first time.

The moment has come for me to go...
but don't leave, I'll be right back.

In pairs
hostile eyes,
whispers break the insulting moments
which disappear into the darkened hallways of Auschwitz.


Ghosts crucify themselves upon walls and bunks,
where bodies laid in a night full of stars,
we can't see them from here.


Midnight escapes by cattle car trailers
white lips washed with anothers red crayon
disconnected in their human wasted fashion
fingers fall like coins, into their pocketed skin.


Trapped beyond a brittle ribcage,
lost by hearts, dumped into winters rage
by a leash of uncertainty and forgetful snow.
Dry once, with stronger bones.


How swollen are our hearts
when the sun goes down
into desolate night.
Come morning,
everything we bare
has learned to expire on its own.

The lamp will burn the longest as we watch,
blood to pavement in the form of a breathing heart.
Plastic flowers sigh within these annotations,
the cement can only hear what we create.
Voices unheard of from those running into the dawn,
hammered out by ignorance.
Moon craters shift toward fingers
that pierce the sky dripping sobs
and curses and faces white as chalk.  
Tombs laid by hearses,
not with haste
but, a decent taste of prayers and monstrous mourning.
The flowers today keep us here, the constellations keep us high.

The world wanted to stop burning
but, our bodies supported
each stage of our shouted defense,
the room one wants to escape to.

Your hand signed the waiver that fell from the tower
Taxed fingers cramped with quills upon a sloped hill.

The darkest soil smells of legendary riddles,
deeper than anything still, never seen by outside eyes.

Id rather write to you on days like this,
from dawn to dusk scattering freedom in willow whispers.

Infinity placed upon elbows,
for years the lines were tattooed against aged skin.

Childhood conversations,
rare moments
remembering what flying was.

Grounded by memories,
bones pull skin across the settling of this harnessed appetite.