Because enough is enough. If he is for me then we will find a way past this but I did it. And I do not feel happy nor sad, just numb. And I am well aware that tomorrow it will hurt more than ever. It will be splinters on my chest, iceless in every breath I take, and sting on my eyes for every blink I may take.

You are the warmest winter,
Keeping it just warm enough to never snow.
Sitting somewhere in clouds above my world
Holding back the white flecks from encircling my globe.
But that’s what we’re doing now,
Trading a good thing for maybe something better.
Out to replace normal with an iceless ground
So that we don’t have to tiptoe around the weather.
And you don’t mind intertwining our lives
Like the temperatures are doing with seasons.
The borrowed days from autumn, newness of spring,
The connections from summer, and a million reasons.
Whatever we were doing then
Was a nice, natural time line, I guess.
More like a buildup than a countdown.
Less like accomplishment and more like success.
If it ever gets cold enough again,
It’s because the outdoors will finally understand
That by then we will have weaved blankets from comfort
And made hot chocolate with a richer feeling
Than being friends.
Until then I’ll be blowing on the fire
That I’ve been watching since I felt its heat.
Surely it can melt the plastic walls of my snow globe
That have been in the way of letting you
Make me feel complete.


*-Makenzie.

What is it that the wail of our voice
has given us
in the stamp of days lurching forward
on the damp streets, eyes upon our feet,
omitting the faces
reflected in this glass grown in our hands
and thickened skies over the oceans clot
of war’s nectar, man’s squander,
while mountains give way to unconscious
machines; voices, wooden with a thick green-love?

What is it that the wail of our voice
has given us,
that the march of a grassless plain
or an iceless crest cannot sign;
we gauge their descent like a killer,
set to be forgiven sins we’ll soon commit
as pointed fingers wag at the surging breach
leaning its majesty over the dampened sun.

The treasures of a million loves,
The times I've had are priceless.
This wave pool nears me quickly and the ocean here is iceless.

This whiskey bourbon did the trick,
For all the times but this one here,
My pirate hat and red king coat,
Won't save my life or dry these tears.

The work of an entire lifetime,
Sinking in the ocean,
All my chances spent and gone,
Im drinking in the motion.

The sun bleeds red across the sky,
My golden goblet suckled dry,
This wooden platform takes my life,
The waves and depths of shiny eyes.

I suppose,
That this is where,
The world has gone,
Beneath my stare,
My bottle shatters,
With my care,
Ill join the masses,
Pirate lair.

(He sheds his coat and strips down. The sun sparkles off of the waves and all the millions of diamond rays glisten like the treasures of history. Water begins to rush over the wooden planks down the ship to where he stands. He salutes the sky, and drops his whiskey goblet, and the roaring water currents behind him drag him to the waters.)

We knew him well before the fall -
before the nights when the only stars

were the dying ones whose darkling scrawls
slouched into the bedtime bar

to perish with a knowing wink,
smothered in an iceless drink;

before his slippery smiles
were filled with gravel,

before the many tired trials,
& clapping gavels;

we knew him well before the fall,
before he shook us off to crawl

into those tents of blue and gluey smoke
crowding every corner

with the lies he claimed were jokes.
We all felt like secret mourners

of the boy we knew so well -
or thought we did, before he fell.