Dear You,*

Your eyes hold the
stanzas of a late-night guilty pleasure.

The voice of you wrenches words
and inaugurates ink
to blue-lined paper.  

The smell of Sunday mornings
on the sheets elicits
pages of verses
I myself
could not behold alone.  

The imperfections of an unsound
life upon your body
make for melodic rhythms.

The curve of your
existence can stab
letters from a desolated mind
I call my own.

The refrain of life
hanging on your heart
reverberates ink stains
onto porcelain
skin
and
I must admit,
I think you’re in love with a writer.

*Sincerely,
Me

Miles upon miles
slither along old,
forgotten bends and
dance with evening
tides.

You exist across
the vast exploits
of their secret
vices.

I exist among
the roots of
their *****, deplorable
deeds.

One day, we
will encounter each
other's beings and
visions.

And what a day that will be.
-s.r.b.

The recollection of screaming and
tears breaks every wave of my
thoughts. The sheets remembered
the melody of you, and I can still
smell you dancing within in the air
of my desolated thoughts.


The screams had made a home inside of
my ears, and I brought them forward
everyday; I just wanted to remember
something of you.

Your tears.
Oh, God.
Your tears.
I drowned in them every night.
I never bothered to learn the
swim; I felt closer to you the
more I struggled to pull a
harrowing breathe from the lungs of
a being I did not recognize as myself.

I felt closer when meals turned into
a nightmare; when my bones stabbed
at my skin; threatening to push through
the shell of me.

I especially felt close when the metallic
barrel of my father’s gun whispered
sweet nothings; appealing demons I had
buried six feet under.

But even though I tried to feel so close
to you again,
I could not forgive the memories
within my mind for bringing
you home to me everyday. -DDF