truly feel the impact
of old school swears

and that makes me sad

I can only hope
in four hundred years
after we're dead

some poor HS freshman
is searching the new wave
hologram CliffsNotes
to define idgaf

he imagines
he has carpal tunnel
from channel surfing;
reruns,
his greatest
weapon against
insomnia

the ficus, the
philodendron
she left
(with half
the wedding
china)
are taking
an eternity
to die

a fortnight
without a teaspoon
of water would
wilt the most
hardy specimens
of their kingdom

perhaps she
bequeathed him
cacti in
disguise

he asks
if they are
what they
appear to be:
leafy indoor
greenery

or prickly
survivors
that grow
only where
all things
are venomous
or have thorns

they swear
they are not
botanical
imposters

liars

he turns up
the volume
on his flat screen
to drown out
the mendacity
of flora

the fauna,  
after all,
were not
to be trusted
either

well

ironic how emotions can be turned off by one conversation

your warmness is not so warm anymore
your eyes tell me different things now
your honesty about other people is now off-putting

your existence no longer has an affect on me

i’m sorry

not for you

(for me)

I find something beautifully heartbreaking about the sound of a string quartet playing in a minor key. As the first bow glides across the strings my heart moves in ways unknown to me. I close my eyes and imagine I am a fallen leaf floating atop a crisp flowing stream; the sun shines blissfully, the white clouds sporadically dance in formless waves across the blue sky, and though I am surrounded by passing beauty I feel the inevitable damnation for what approaches. We all know where the mountain stream leads. Ancient rock stands carved by the clawing marks of running water, desperately trying to escape its fall. With each bar played my heart sinks a little further as I know the end approaches, and when it does I find myself falling; at first gracefully, then as quick as it all began, it ends. The end is never quite as beautiful as you first hope it to be, because it is the end, and what is truly beautiful, never really dies.

Wake me up.
I have had this dream before.
Tired eyes.
Wrinkle under eyes.
Tired body.
Stressed mind.
Please take me out of this dream, I can no longer live in this world I have created.
Where you are the Prince and do no wrong.
A glimpse of light crawled through the darkness and I saw the light, you were trying to hide me from.
I'm no longer yours.

the howling tunnel
of reminiscing shafts
sunlight beaming,
swirling on the cracked
brittle bits of aged brick
weigh into the soft soil
and slimy with moss,
glistening with dew
as the butterflies stutter
at the edge of each petal,
remembering the echo
of another duo swoon
rippling music and
cascading laughter,
bouncing in the spaces
between the pebbles,
slipping in between
the ruffling book pages,
a quiet abode littered
with graphite and ink,
another place for
a howling mind
to breathe