Tell me that you love me and that you'll stay,
because time takes passion slowly away,
and I don't care if you forget my name,
but all the same,
remember how I made you Feel.

See, love is just a word with no meaning
and more than once I've been left dreaming.
Hopeless romantics can't compete
with how much I succumb to cold feet.
But, all the same,
remember how you made me Listen.

Smell the dead roses scattered about.
The petals die amongst new sprouts,
just as this, you spoke my name,
but all the same,
remember please, our Taste of freedom.

My Senses spin with unfulfilled desire,
and upon silent lips, the coldest fire.
Yet still, I wish to hear that phrase,
"I love you," more than ever these days,

but all the same,
and upon my name,

what you couldn't say
I cannot blame.

Rehashing the rare
Out with the new,
In with the old.
She's always had a thing
For the things that exude
A quirkiness and a bucolic charm
The smell of old books
The black and the white
Good ol' Chaplin, James Dean
And the Sound of Music
The Beatles, a tape recorder
High-waisted pants
And the gramophone
And a rustic old bar
With a gruff bartender
Who's off his rocker
But he'll double up as your therapist
And for the boy with the dark brown eyes
Who looks across the bar at her.
And smiles.
It's all black and white again
Except this time,
It isn't her favourite Casablanca scene
But a white screen
And a thousand particles
Microcosmic
A milieu of
Unfathomable numbers float
Through the atmosphere
Connecting her to him.
And she doesn't want that.
She's always had a thing for the old,
But he makes her doubt that.

I wanted my life to be a poem.
That's what all of this is.
I date you
Because you fit into poetry
The way dark things do.
And you make me happy
But the truth is
I'd love you if you were only
A sad poem.

Cigarettes capture
My attention
Because they're poetic.
Poets smoke.
A cigarette fits in poems
Like writers pen in palm.

I listen to music
For the lyrics
Which speak to me
In the way I like
To speak.
For the drums
That now only mean you.
For the guitar
In the closet
I take out
On occasion.
For the rhythm
That makes my pen dance
When it would rather sleep.

I have the poem in my head
And I guess I'm writing it.
But you're writing it too.
So is she.
And him.
Mostly me.
But the cigarettes
Write too.
Disappearing through
Your lips--
Ash appearing on the page.

Like a kiss upon my cheek
Infusing a tender glow
Graciously revealing which we seek
Harboring the world of
T**ommorrow

I'm in love with someone's daughter
living in the shards of a broken home
Cutting herself on two year-old letters
These are moments she can't fake;
reasons to feel alone
So used to abuse, her tears start to shake
I hold her close as her head starts to ache
"I love you too much,
so I can't let your heart break."
She said, "I know you love me,
but you've made a mistake."

I never meant for anyone to be my pulse.
I promise not to step on your feet
if you teach me how to waltz.