I weep at what is lost in translation,
I scream at what is lost to the ages,
If they, both, can be set adrift,
What hope do We have?

He called me 'love'

It was only a passing comment

(to him anyway)

for me

it meant so much more

the moon looks a lot like porcelain tonight
but not in a superfluously verbose kind of way--
more of a telekinetic fragility kind of way.
where the plaid shirt hanging on that semi-open closet
across the room faintly resembles
a picnic blanket that belonged
to a midsummer day sometime in March--
some memories as such now only belongs
in a film cartridge//
or on post-emptied bottles of Prosecco on your nightstand.
I now understand--
why hurricanes are named after people
but to make people--
fleeting, paper people--
your universe
is to trail further and further away from land.
we're too inlove with chances;
too fixated in the idea of emancipating the uncertainty from the "maybe".
lie your flimsy bones on your pillow-invaded sheets darling
and call it a lifeboat.

it's a fragile night
and so are you.

I reached out to say goodbye one last time
My hands trembled my eyes began to cry
I felt my heart breaking for the last and final time
I prayed that he would say don’t go please stay.. I love you
The words she yearned to hear never came
He disappeared back into the darkness from which he came
It was as if he had been waiting and finally this day had came