Its 1 o clock in the morning,
There's too many hours in the clicking
Of that old ceiling fan.
And if it fell out of its hole,
And hit me,
Would you send flowers?
I think of bumping into you,
Somewhere big.
So nobody notices the sobs,
From both of us.
You cry because my skin is
Ugly
And I cry because your eyes are
Tired.
I wonder (1:05, why can't I sleep?)
If your smile (it never stopped)
Would falter,
With my stories of pain.
(You never stopped smiling, but
Missing you is stopping time)
(1:05)
Click, click.
Maybe I'll write you a letter.
Maybe I'll send it.
(Its 3:30)
One more word on the paper.
Sorry, and it's slanted, floating off its line
Misplaced, like I,
Before sleep.

r.c.

Your eyes
are dark and
dull...

I could've
sworn they
were bright blue
when we
first
met.

I want to run away with you,
Away in that big box of blue.
And hear the question, "Doctor who?"
"I'm afraid we're just passing through."

Telephone poles
                                     thrown in stitches
across the never-ending blanket
                                                 -- that you stopped following somewhere
after an indie rock concert. The pattern that gavels crusades
                                                               on segmented streets--loss balance
                        bookshelves. Times when tongue-tied families test the lengths
                                                                                                      of rapture and abundance,
            both mouths tired and one eye black--a sock monster. A dog outside barking
                                                                              and lists,
                                                                              and lists,
                                                                              and lists,
                                                                              and so on.
                     All this while you watch the tide fall and rise.

i became the moon,
my eyes pulled the stars away from the night
(the night was lonely anyway, it had nothing to lose)
and i found a tiara next to the curb.
on my way out to get it, a Cadillac almost hit me,
but i saved myself and my royal status.
my gown was short, tattered,
but perfectly outlined the curves of my body.
my hair was untamed,
but tiny little curls framed my jaw and cheekbones
just so.
for one night, for one moment in time,
i was the princess that little me had always wanted to be.

'keep your head up princess,
your crown is falling...'
'sorry,' i say,
and push that diamond tiara back.
'sorry,' says the king, and
our voices are so different.
'shh, it's okay...'
'it'll never be okay!' i say,
and he pulls me against his fabric to
keep me safe.
'let your guard down.'
'i'm so afraid, your highness,'
'don't be. you are royalty too.'

it was some sort of
illness
that rushed to my fingertips
and when i touched her,
i could feel myself heat up.
like everything inside of me,
was rushing to the threshold of my mouth.
and i had to keep it in. i had to clench down
until i could taste crimson metal.
and i kept my hands on her,
until my skin became the pond in the winter,
and the fever moved on.