you write poems
about lost love,
broken hearts,
and failed redemption.

you write tragedies
about lonely nights,
crying minds,
and bleeding gashes of regret.

you write monologues
about voiceless mouths,
venomous words,
and inevitable decay.

you write autobiographies
about faded dreams,
unheard whispers,
and vanishing memories.

you write
about what once was.

and i do, too.

though i doubt your poems are about me
like mine are about you.

(a.m.)

I'm sorry I stole your *****.
I'm sorry I texted you drunk.
I'm sorry I yelled at you.
I'm sorry I always forget to take my medication.
I'm sorry I still haven't told you I've been seeing her.
I'm sorry I fell asleep.
I'm sorry I cried on the phone.
I'm sorry I texted you on New Year's Eve.
I'm sorry I can't love you back.
I'm sorry I sent you pictures.
I'm sorry I sent him pictures.
I'm sorry I blamed you for my heartbreak.
I'm sorry I only come to you with heartbreak.
I'm sorry I forgot to water the plants.
I'm sorry I got blood on your jacket.

I found her
drunk and
shoeless,
ankle deep
in the sand
screaming
curses into the
sea.
She called the
circling Gulls her
guardians,
the bottle she
held a
sword.

I asked her
for a reason
and all she
spoke of was
the past.

She reached
to me and took
my arm,
made me
promise not
to ever leave.

I gave her
my word
which she
had already had.

These thoughts
we shared became
magic.

She opened her
arms to me
and I stepped
into her hug.
She smelled of
sweet sweat and
salt water,
a citrus scent
lingered from her
golden sun
blessed  hair.

Dismissing all
the heartache
I took in what she
had to offer.
Sandy kisses,
drunken promises
and all.
I held her tight
and quietly
begged the
Gods to never
let her go.

I placed
soft kisses along
her sand littered
deep tanned
shoulders.
She ran her
bitten down nails
along the back
of my neck.

Somewhere behind
us the world
cast judgement upon
our Love.

We sat as one
watching the children
chase the tide away.
Both of us
quietly wondering how
long this moment
would last.
Our time was now
but our time was
always ending 
as another
version of the
sun burned deep
into the sea.

I CAN'T WRITE ABOUT YOU
BECAUSE YOU HAVEN'T
BROKEN MY HEART YET
AND THE ONLY INK I USE
IS MY OWN BLOOD