Here I am, penning verses that paint vibrant images
Expressing my yearning through ostentatious displays
But do these efforts impinge upon -- even in the slightest --
The twisted fate we have been endowed?
*I do not like to think this is all for naught

you had one job:
you had to read the ghosts
scary bedtime stories
to keep them docile,

but you fell in love,
and let them go.

That moment where the past four months just feel a waste.
When you look inside yourself and think,
Am I not good enough?
What's wrong with me?
Why can't I be happy?
Then you look back at him and think,
I love you.
Why can't you love me?
The tears flow freely, but to no relief.
The only assistance could be him.
Holding you, shushing you, and telling you you'll be alright.
But instead you have the cold sheets you sleep on at night,
And the cat laying at your feet.
But that's not what you want.
Even though it could be what you need.

Deaths are like tally marks on your mind.
They are charcoal black tick marks
that build on your subconscious,
never fading to scars.
Some are merely penciled in,
like the death of an aunt you never knew.
However the death of someone close cuts deep into you;
a constantly fresh wound.
Never scarring, never healing, it only festers.
But watching someone die burns a dark wound into your brain,
a permanent scorched mark,
the insignia of a life taken forever,
branded onto your thoughts.
We can never remove our tallies and
they only build over time,
our mind growing darker from past sufferings.
But when all that remains is what caused it in the beginning: death.
you become just another tally on those you loved.

A random chance,
Fraction of a second.
But coincidence or fate,
Two dimensions poised
Divergent courses take a tangent
An intersection never meant to be.
What they lack in time together
Is made up for in passion.
For a fraction of a second
They become one.
The Moment Rests,
hung in silent tranquility,
In that perfect little piece,
of Eternity.

sometimes, i think you live here,
in my marrow, in my bones.
there's a squirrels nest of
broken heart pieces and mirror whipsers in the dark
shredded and stuck around my ribcage.
you haunt my esophagus and sternum.

usually, i think you no longer live here,
in my fingers, in my toes,
but, can love exist like ghosts?
faded polaroids floating in air,
like where there's not enough ink
and the words come out blurry and smudged
and grey like charcoal-dust-fingerprints
on the page?
can love exist like that?
shadows of tall buildings stretching across streets?
can love exist like that?
i think it can, because there's charcoal dust
at the base of my spine
that still spells out your name sometimes,
and smells of chai.
you still know my weak spots,
and i still know where you're ticklish
i know where you bruise like over ripe apples
my spine remembers curving against your chest,
and i know your breath against my neck
your hands on my hips,
your lips on my lips
if anyone ever wants to know you, let me tell them
the noise you make when you get a new idea,
or the hushed sound of your breathing as you sleep,
the way your lips curve into a smile slowly,
or rush into laughter, there's no inbetween.
i'll tell them about your eyes in the middle of the night
when they bore into me like twin drills into brick..
and they will begin to know you.
it is funny that people can fall off of you and away,
drift back into the coils in your brain
that hold distant, but important, memories
moments of pure bliss, trauma,
you forget the names and faces you used to see everyday
for all different reasons, the universe has different plans
than what we'd like to see, couples are forced apart
sometimes gladly
sometimes reluctantly
and sometimes sadly
but there will always be a thread of you that
holds something on the other end
and usually it hangs off of you unnoticed,
but sometimes it gets caught with other threads,
or looped around an arm or a leg
and you have to remember,
try to remember,
for a moment,
i am on the other end.