I wanted you to fall in love with this:
A picture of perfection painted well
Content to be a lovely mask you’d kiss
But through my time with you my image fell---
And did I right away share honest words
That dribbled from my lips pathetically
While fearing scorn and judgment I’d incur
Let my tears drop un-surreptitiously.
But now I had no sleek and stealthy ways;
You tore apart my well-crafted façade
I had not seen the brightness of the days
Twas shrouded by opacity of gauze
I did not like this much, I had delayed
Pursuing individuality
And then, somehow, my deep beliefs were swayed
Perplexed that you’d desire the real Me . . .
And now the front has gone, I’m pleased to make
Acquaintance to my Self for my own sake.

she was underdressed, overtouched. and kept ironing out her napkin at the bar. with blue ink she wrote his last name in place of her own. the fan spun off-kilter. the bartender finished his third vegas bomb. one too many.

Funny. I have a similar problem. When a waitress drops in to take a drink order, I can never look her in the eye. Guilt, I suppose. There’s nothing she’s doing for me I can’t do for myself. Legs work. Hands work. Let me walk to the water dispenser and press the glass into it. Let me pick up my food. Let me carry it to my table. You take it easy, sweetheart. So, instead of meeting her pupils, I find myself reading and re-reading her nametag. A silent mantra. Tara. Tara. Tara.

Thank you for saying I should be “held by my edges.” That’s a candy-coated take on the truth. A more accurate description would have been “*******.” Oh, the toxic mix of shame, alcohol, and letter writing. I’m a new man, though. Cologne and everything. I’m even done drinking. Well, after I finish this beer. Still had one in the fridge. Anyway, I’m sorry.

No, women like Heather don’t disappear cleanly. Or with grace. In the silent moments, she always looked at me like I might hit her. She’ll probably tell friends I did. Everyone enjoys a good story. She called Friday. Said she’d taken some X. Dancing on her couch. I could join her or just watch. I just hung up. Did I tell you she’s really into Anime? And she attaches faux foxtails to her belt. I’m not sure if one of those traits is responsible for the other. Wish she didn’t know where I lived.

They smell of must,
Burnt paper.
Something charred,
The burning end of a cigarette.

A blackened snow,
They crumble to the touch.
Fluttering down,
Gently falling, a pile.

Some light,
Some dark.
Some miniscule,
Some huge.

Different meanings;
Memories,
Bad habits,
Even secrets.

Some represent the dead,
They speak stories.
They make the deceased,
Come alive.