your lips taste like copper
the red all over my shirt
you did not ask to taste metal
and I’m too young to feel this
pull it open wider than
the sick smile
curling your ****** lips
to get a view of
how bad the damage really is
your favorite knife, your favorite skin
I taste like iron and copper

it was raining
and I wanted the window open
I missed you with every drop

I was a dripping faucet to the rain
you would be asleep by now

peace never made me tired
watching your rain sleep
the smile creeping into your face
happy that the soundtrack
is real

the air buzzed when I heard it start
it felt like a warm embrace
on cold skin
my warm arms
that you let in

the hollowest point
went through my hand into you
and took you away

without us
the air is missing
your scent now

it was waves crashing
misting skin
leaving glistening optimism
on a hot day

one hundred and twenty
Hours of relief

our star gently reaching its hand
in between trees stretching
begging to touch the sky

it was waves crashing
white noise over silence

I heard peace in it.

I sat at the table we sat at two years ago
I had the same terrible airport omelette
with the same soapy airport coffee
it feels like I should be sharing this with you
as if I simply forgot to book your flight

it was the first time someone called us correctly
we sat in the right seats,
on a morning brighter than this

it’s all gray
missing luggage on a cross country flight
I sat in the right seat
and felt warm pretending

sometime I walk by spaces
and the air reminds me how you smell
always in the in-between

I can hear you when it whistles
I drink those moments in,
and I am alive again.

the people who lived here are dead.

sometimes the night nudges me awake
and the air makes its way into my ear
all the while, whispering:
“You really changed everything, didn’t you?”