Poseidon mourns with the mumbling sea,
froths and foams and falters,
for everything I long to grieve.
Silver tears fall, the fruit of tree.
I grow her from the cut of me,
watch her take up roots and leave.
Wait, while she becomes all I thought I'd be
and steals the silence from my memory -
abandons peace for chase of ecstasy.

I joined the worshiped in their gentle garden
and trampled every orchid, bright and sweet
just to prove I could win such pardon,
live to die another week.
We were all of warm and wild
skin feverish to lonely sun god's touch.
My tongue took blood of grape so mild
I found myself -nothing- in the middle of much.

I stare into your copper penny eyes
fresh from the sandy shore
and wonder, oh wonder
why don't mine look like that anymore?

Where the Applewood used to grow
and cotton blew lazy in the August breeze.
Back when you still kissed my cheek,
a time I allowed myself to breathe.

White house on the corner of Lover's lane.
Shaded, by the dapple of your lies
whispering of how we'd one day
look through its stained window panes
and plant red dahlias on its sides.

That birch wood is rotting now,
beetle has made it her home.
And I still recite unheard wedding vows
even after you are gone
and I; alone.

That broken eggshell,
smaller than the thumb that rests in my palm.
In a place where baby's breath grew,
quiet as linen sheets, peaceful as psalms.
Remember when skin scraped as child fell.
I knew that street, those callused feet
all too well.

I felt my soul was sealed up in that rotting tomb,
and now where had it gone?
With the ceramic pieces littered from her ghostly womb.
Hazy summer days I spent wrong.
Never thought, love passed on so soon.

I let it crinkle beneath the leather of my shoe
walk so gently on eggshells when I'm with you.
Have you any idea what you do?
hand me your tender moments, and gentle kisses
so few.

While I trace my fingers along my own body
until I am numb once more,
you are softly smiling
in the shade of an old cypress tree
creeping up her front door.

You would sit out and soak;
still refuse to see the rain.
Live out those dreaded summers
from the lonely view of a rusted windowpane.

I played house
while you played my Daddy's games
guilt and trip ugly words from your mouth
still, by night, to call my name
when the sky turned to narcotic dust.
So I sketch constellations of us,
ones where, about each other, we feel the same.