05.03.15The moon is a cold white disc tonight
yet underneath, you and I
insignificant beneath the blackness of dreams.
We talk about work and sex
making promises unkept.
We base the moment on
the blur of tears,
the heaviness of our souls
and the stars that swathe in the black
I close my eyes,
and we're the shadows on the moon
the difference between poets and practical mena practical man
feels rain and hurries indoors.
a poet gives pause
to see waves surging throughout
oceans in every raindrop.
winter brew.he wrote me a love song
in a teacup.
I drank down the words,
let them warm me up
from the inside out.
it's no longer worth a thousand wordsi took down the pictures; every last
they reminded me too much of the
shapes of my eyes three years
ago, and the way your shoulders
slumped in defeat when you realized the flash was on,
they reminded me of the books
stacked in towers around our heads, tilting
softly in summer sunlight
drifting through hazy shades of dust, left to pile into
mountains by morning from curious
fingers and a night owl's
they reminded me of yesterday
and ten yesterdays ago and how
they would never happen again. how even though
we smiled freeze-frame, it never lasted.
everyone wants to think they will
keep themselves forever, and seeing perfect pictures of pretty lives
lost years ago
made me realize: nothing is.
that was the hardest part.
so i took down the pictures, every last
and sent them
down to ashes in a
shoebox that didn't burn as
easily as i'd thought it would.
i would love to say i'm sorry, but -