Shelly says nothing
ever really turns out
just the way we expect.

She's right. Nothing
turns out just
the way we expect
like secret hand-holding
in backyard trees.

Or the way maps
become our enemy.
That impossible geography
that separates two halves
like the years lost in
a flurry of blows
and caresses.

You messaged me yesterday.
Snide words about present company
and then wanted to see me. I agreed
because I no longer remembered the
sound of your voice. Those tones
and inflections that make the
ugliest insults sound like a church choir.
Spiritual. Soulful.
Your laugh rang through the car
like it has through the hollows
of my mind every night when
eyes are closed, beds are empty
and I try to remember the sound
of your voice.

The alcohol is burning
a fire through my veins
that makes every love
you ever showed me
microscopic in comparison.
Minuscule and disproportionate.

Your words taste
as sweet as candy
and I catch myself
cutting them off.
My lips pressed against yours
in anticipation. How could
anything be as sweet as your
smile, your voice, your eyes?

She's moving to the big city.
Leaving this Podunk town
behind in a blaze of smoke,
sarcasm, short steps.
Accomplishments.

She's dancing away
from this town
with the grace of
grandmothers and women
long since past. Past
the cracked sidewalks
and brick streets, down
the highway. Out of here.
Out of here.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
For it no longer echoes in my ears, in my fingers,
in my tongue. These endless digits fallen instantaneously
numb like a local anesthetic or winter basement nights
alone in the dark.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
It's melodic tones and overtures, the way it wraps
around words like my hands around your curves.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.
And how I fed on it like the word of God.

This is the day I forget the sound of your voice.

You think you're clever
but I read you like
the prettiest little poem.
Red hair flickering the
edges of paper like
matchsticks.

I have this idea of you.
Tattooed and beautiful.
Sarcastic and witty,
with a silver tongue
that tastes better than
the richest chocolate.

sometimes it feels like my mouth is stitched shut
maybe to prevent me from saying the wrong thing?
but when the stitches fray
and im allowed the luxury of voice
it seems like wrong is the only language I know

would you let me be a hero?
take a break for awhile and hand over the reigns
I promise ill do everything I can to save you
even if its your own demons haunting honey
even if its from yourself