Solitude

when the damage has been done
and the tears
simply stop
words of remorse
fall flat
scattered atop the debris
of the aftermath
always sorry
always making promises
with no ability
to follow through

forgiveness
loses all meaning

i find
being alone
saves me the time
the energy
the wrenching
anxiety ridden
emotional
and mental upheavals
of having to absolve
or be absolved

it is suitable

Splinters

How do we miss
and continue to love
the ones who have hurt us
irrevocably

is it the moments
though brief
full of promises
promises

never kept
always broken

(breadcrumbs for
emaciated birds)

shards of
good intentions
scattered
slicing
through stubborn
normally thick
skin
with ease

(tis but a flesh wound…)

like tiny splinters
hidden deep under fingernails

there throbs
a constant pain
of remembering
what was
what could have been
what will never be

stir-crazy

my fingers twitch
an itching under the tips
a nervous searching
for the smooth feel
of the skin
across your cheekbone

they tap
impatient and out of sync
a restless dance of
digits
unable to sit
still

my mouth
a continuous
phantom tingle
tickling
my lips
so i keep them
pressed tight
to dismiss
them missing you
because
they are not kissing you

the memory
of that
the faint brush
tender touch
of lips
lingering soft
but urgent
against yours
sharply inhaling
the exhale
of
your breath

wistful
the days
slowly yawn on
while
i yearn
for that
blessed moment
when
we were one

Sunday

It is Sunday.
Just another day
which was supposed to be ours.

Yet
Here I am
Alone
Realizing that

Days don’t belong
to anyone

They are just
measures of time
fading into the nothingness
of the
eventual forgotten

Still
it is Sunday

Just another day

Yet
I haven’t the Heart
The Desire
Nor the Wish
to share it with
anyone else.

nonsense

after all this time
have you ever known me
the answer is saddening
but not surprising
for it is
unequivocally
no

but how could you
even if
i am whom i’ve always been
a quick scribble
the key half broken in the lock
soft drizzle through sunlit clouds against the blur of blue
a platypus

i speak
words tumble out faster than thoughts can catch
confusion
misinterpretation
a picture taken in the dark
without flash

i have attempted conformity
normalcy
complacency
rigidity
resigned myself to abnormality

(what a misnomer)

unapologetically and with zero malice

i am who i am
whom i’ve always been
fine wine and cheeto dust covered fingertips
technicolor costumes
against grayscale scenery
loud, unafraid
quiet, guarded
polka dots on plaid
silk sheets
sandpaper

mostly nonsense

and you’ll not be the one
to make heads or tails
of me

Too Much

Brilliant and glowing
A star
A Sun
And you,
blinking,
wandered towards the warmth
the brightness…
this was new
and for a minute
you were happy

But the heat
The sweltering heat
What once soothed
now scorched
What once gave soft light
Now blinded

It was too much of what it was
And not enough of what you wanted

Stars burn until they don’t.
And one
cannot hold jurisdiction over stars.

the rain

it’s raining and i miss you.
i wish you knew how extraordinary a thing that is.

the rain talks to me
softest pit-pat of drops against the glass pane
like
a gang of cats jogging across hot summer pavement
too quick to count
slightly silent
save for the rhythm
a staccato in unison
what a paradox

but it’s singing to me
and i think of you
your voice
(sweet songs kissing my ears)
your words
(drowsy mumbled love notes late at night)
and echos of
your laughter
(the happiest of dreams)

it’s raining and my arms feel empty
(where are you)
my hands restless
(i need to touch you)
the gnawing ache in my stomach
(i am empty)

my body is in a frenzied disparate hunger
one which cannot be easily sated
appeased
quelled

so

alone
i listen to the wind
whipping water
at my window
imagining
it’s you next to me
speaking to me
singing to me
whispering to me
instead of
the rain

Imprisoned

Pouring regrets,
mistakes,
guilt,
into this
rocks glass

*neat please*

it’s the way…
the road
to perdition

a constant
hell
of one’s own making

exoneration
is a
pipe dream

as lucidity fades
culpability
becomes
a
faint tendril
disintegrating into
the dawn

forgiveness
teasing
with the
rising
of the sun

self-delusion

as it
diminishes

returns
to the
blurred
and sloppy
self-loathing
as the
exhaustion
of BEING
becomes a dense,
thickened, hairy
weight
on the
soul

all that is left
for respite
is sleep

only to
repeat
on the morrow