My dreams brim with your voice,

the sad eyes she now looks at me with,

and I wonder if it was ever real.

If you were there

or if you were just this hot vision

spilling fantasy I deemed reality.

I can still feel your lips on my neck,

your fingers wrapped in my hair.

I can still hear your voice saying my name,

telling me you’d never leave,

yet here I am alone,

dreaming instead of living.


Me Again

It’s the whispers of loneliness,

the incessant images of your sad eyes

in every turn of the clock,

and each moment is new and old

all at once,

so curved and sharp

with jagged edges disguised at soft.

And all I can see is the past,

a road that never really was,

a place I never lived

even though I woke up there every day.

We drove in the dark,

the unknown places suddenly showing,

so achingly aware of each other’s skin,

the vibrations humming below.

Dash lights outlined your face in blues

while faded music danced in the air.

I can still feel your hand on my cheek

as you reached for something more.

You searched for quiet

while I fumbled with loud steps,

yet you saw me.

For a minute,

I was me again,

sparkling white flames

burning through the atmosphere

of you.

That was real.

That was hope.

That was me

when I was with you.


Losing Language

Here I am again,

the blocks pummeling me

in silence,

in wordless whispers that wilt

on the screen.

I try to say the ways it aches

but the wind rips the language

from my tongue

and buries it

under miles of sadness.

Each step away

only brings me

more wanting,

more agony of gone,

of alone,

of missing

when you weren’t even there to begin with,

when I believed broken could heal.

You walk through my dreams

on wings of disaster,

stomping your way through my heart,

and I let you.

I crawl back into sleep

hoping to see your sad eyes

look at me like I’m magic,

and it’s all so hopelessly




and so true.

This ache is blind

and it ties my words

into shitty knots of longing

that will never be undone

because I am undone,

always a mess of tangles

in your hands.

Forever entwined

in your fingertips,

a ball of pain you made.



It aches.

But doesn’t it always?

Doesn’t it hurt so much

you feel like fire

might shoot from your pores,

heat might fly from your feet

and send you into spaces lined with the dead?

Places plagued with all the pain

you’ve balled up inside?

Doesn’t it ache the same way it did before?

The way you remember

unraveling that cord of agony,

yet this time spikes permeate the wire

and gouge on their way by,

slice you up into a bloody disaster,

as if you weren’t already there,

as if you weren’t already frozen

on the floor,

bleeding out

as he walks by,

as he steps on your fingers

like they are puddles to splash in

and leaves you wounded

like you’ve always been.


Summer Days

We can’t go back.

Of course,
I know this but

the heat of those summer days
where the blue burned our eyes
and the grass,
hot needles to our feet.
The concrete bold
in its desire to burn
yet beckoning anyway.

Those wood-paneled walls
and ancient air conditioner
with every weak gust of cool wind,
but we paid no mind to any of it,

the cool,
the hot.

Because no air escaped
from between our skin,
no breath lost amongst our mouths,

the sharp ecstasy of it all,

the blatant glory
of us
in that hot room aching with desire
to be just


Gunpowder and Rain

We used to sit on the edges of this life like gunpowder and rain. Sweet smoke and the earth rising in woodsy cascades. We were danger and heat, hot rainforest-showers in deserts toppled by our hurricane-love. You ignited me with your fingers and I emblazoned you onto the world, raindrop-eyes they saw but you never […]

Gunpowder and Rain