SawYouAtMyFuneral

We broke into the old apartment to look for things we'd lost when moving on and moving out, across the street and sixteen cities South. I tried to take the poems from the windows but memories are more permanent than marker. Mornings seemed longer when sunrise wrote words on bare walls and bare skin, or when I traced end-rhymes and metaphors into the curve of your hips. These days we don't sleep. and I couldn't find them; instead we found furniture that spelled apathy and wrong words on right angles, organized and dead. They painted over our names curled above the bedroom, they washed the windows with writer's block and fi

listen: fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider. but i liked the idea of it. listen: two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme. and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end." listen: on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape. lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged ho

life is a film is a process thought is a ghost is a conscience fresh caught in the flesh fails all in the end and time is a loss is a prophet

I now prefer my beauty nameless so I can quake and curse fate blameless bereft of the burden of discovery avoiding left by almost alright with anonymity see once you learn to love it's like riding a bike and it seems I never met a liar that I didn't like and/or I love you's not a sentence that lasts for life or perhaps (and this possibility just occurred to me) there's a sort of painful parole obtained through perjury so what's a boy to fear when fear's not what it appears to be? how to intuit an intent when purpose is a question in perpetuity?

dearest dear, there is a butterfly breathing its way out of you. there is a red & blinking button pressed to bear releasing. I am ever so sorry, but still collecting your colors. In the midst of apologies, still pressing your fragile frame to pages; special focus on forever. tomorrow, I will visit you inside your house. shortly thereafter, I will hide underneath your bed; making a nest of your blankets. the following morning, I will infiltrate breakfast disguised as a warm sip of tea. that will become my favorite section, in retrospect. the part when you learned to call me "honey", honey. the part where I whispered and tickled your chin. I