isn't it strange
how we can go
from star crossed lovers
fighting fate,
drowning
in stolen moments
to strangers
before the sun
ever met the morning.

That did it
He was tired of coming home from work
and finding
a ******* book on the table
instead of food

but the book was also on his
pillow when he went to bed

on the toilet tank

in the garage

in the shed behind the house

and on the dashboard of his ******* car

He had enough of it

And one day he told her
he had enough of it and enough of her
It was time to break up
this wasn't going to work

He was not going to quit smoking
and she was not going to quit nagging him
to read her book on quitting smoking

"I won't marry you until you're 101 days clean,"
she'd said

He smoked a pack and a half a day

It was time to break up
and, gods, she didn't take it lightly

In that morning he left her alone to collect
all her stuff from his house and be gone
by the time he returned

She was indeed gone by the time he returned
and took nothing more than what belonged to
her and even left something behind
Her self-published book on how to quit smoking,
what else?

He sighed
picked it up from the coffee table
looked it over
sat on the couch
put a cigarette between his lips and
when he lit it the house blew up

Perhaps a big moral in the book was to
always check the gas after a
breakup

but it was too late now

i remember the moment
where it all came into focus
after a night of drunken kisses
and lipstick stains
on your autumn sweater.
i told myself this was it
the chance to finish what we started
yet you stood infront of me
eyes casting shadows,
explaining that our stolen embrace
was an impromptu mistake
meaning that to you
we were a blinding moment
and to me, we were the sun.

I've been watching the ants.
It's August and I sleep in the afternoons.
I'm single. I haven't showered in two days.
The smoke from the incense drifts.
I **** it down like a good myth.
And the ants are there, on my desk,
scurrying back to their homes
with a few bread crumbs in tow.
I talk to myself after lunch.
"Let me show you to your bed."
And I bury my head in the comforter
and the ants are feasting
and outside there's a pandemic
going on
and I read about a man with
a one-point-five million-dollar hospital bill
and I heard they've been sending
direct deposits to the dead
and something crawls along my leg
and how did nag champa become
the default incense
and I'm single and my heart is
curdled and my mom calls
to ask if I've found anyone to make it whole
but I tell her I better grab a
few winks--it is the late afternoon--
but before I go, how about an update?
My dad fought cancer last
winter and we didn't really
talk about it
and I kept thinking of the
word leisure
and everything got empty
and a little bit terrible
and a leisure suit is nothing, nothing
to be proud of,
and they gave my dad a numbered
chip and they let him ring a bell
and he said a few words
and I wanted to be there,
really there, you know?
But I knew it'd just be
a moment until the sun
got stranded on its way
to set, and I'd see my shadow
and burrow into this bed
with a nag champa halo
and a few mumbled words
to commemorate day 153 of quarantine.

i had these dreams for a while
after that night.

you said my eyes were pretty
while we laid in bed
just staring
sharing
secrets
under my
softest blanket.

you whisper
an insecurity
and i tell you
that i have
three
toothbrushes
and somehow
slowly
we're
kissing.

we pause
to keep
looking
at each
other's
eyes.

"you're so beautiful"

i'm not
used to
feeling so
special -
we're naked
but suddenly
i'm so very shy.

you leave in the
morning and i
drift away to
you in my
mind.

the next night
i dreamed we
were holding
each other. your
form eventually
begun to twist
and turn beside
me. you morphed
into trauma and
shadows, black
shades running
up my arms
and i can't
breathe
icantbreathe
icantbreathe
i
can't
breathe.

when i wake up
my chest hurts
i curse my brain
and i miss
you.

it went on like that
for a few weeks.

looking back,
i guess this is
healing.

i've always been told
that i am a greedy lover
allowing love
to eat me whole,
devoting myself entirely
and expecting
the same in return.

i let you swim in my veins,
before burying yourself
inside my bones.

my kisses
will burn your skin,
and leave pathways
of where i've been.

i will breathe you in
forsaking all oxygen
injecting you into my blood,
desperate for another fix
so completely addicted
so completely yours.

The first time I ever heard the term
"Manic-Depressive,"
I was seventeen.

I walked into Andy's house,
to see the oil of his father
splayed across the couch,
in a still pool of ink.

"That's my dad. He's
Manic-Depressive,
and just gets like that sometimes."

I painted that memory into the fire of my brain,
carrying with me the fever dreaming,
the terror,
the praying to never be
like Andy's dad.