fall in love with someone
who treats your scars
like birthmarks

There is a face in my mirror
I do not recognize--
blurry and dark around
the edges.
Static black and white
forms a portrait
of vaguely familiar nature.
I study closely
as it distorts
in size and distance.

A hand reaches out
and
I wonder
who it belongs to.
Tracing my eyes along the foreign limb
I see a body
I somehow feel I should know.

I close my eyes
and

f
       a
          d
                   e
                              a
                                 w
                                      a
                                                y.

The weather is not bipolar,
It does not wake in pain,
It does not feel
a debilitating emptiness
running through its bloodstream,
poisoning its nervous system,
depriving it of all the things
that used to make it feel alive.
The weather is not afraid
to drink coffee
for the fear that it will spark
a week of sleepless nights,
a week of spending rent money
on projects destined to be left
incomplete,
a week of irritability
and unfinished meals.
The weather does not experience
mental illness,
people do.

White sky,
Clouds weeping
out of rhythm love songs
to the earth,
I stand in silence
as it becomes clear
that I stopped loving you
a long time ago

The illuminating amber came to a close
as we reached our destination
overlooking the crossroads
that once held our love.
It was your last attempt
at showing me the stars
and still
all I saw were the empty spaces
between them.

Your voice forms a noose
around my throat
tightening
with each word that escapes
your lungs
and maybe--
i don't need to breathe