"hey, where are you" i walked amongst the sea to find you sleeping in a flower i"m outside, **** i missed" to stoke between your roots "i missed your text" a spark "ok" i felt when our lips were furred in kissing's "i'll see you in a minute" unhurtfullest punch

Her name is a knife,
Speak it for me,
Oh neck,
For we say,
*"She is called Night"

sitting next to you knowing that you're not mine
with tears dedicated to that reason
dripping down my face
and you sat there holding me
soberly

but it was all in vain; afterwards
I did not gently do away with all of your clothes
I did not have time to whisper to your soul
instead I drove you to her
so you could slink back in silence

this time
the trace of a girl other than your own
was me

Eyes, orb as exploding stars,
Weighted light of hair rushing,
Held extremities, nimbus limbs,
Eons' spring, singularity crushing.

Outside the barn ached weakly in the autumn  cold,
The air was still against the magic movements softly exploding in the parallel rows of the hissing sparklers,
The bride and groom would soon pass under their faux glory,
You said I was a good man,
"I know, so are you",
You turned to the ground and stumbled over your confession,
Tripping over the light fog of alcohol in your breath,
"No,
"-no,"
"-I"

"I'm not."

And you walked away
Then the photographer came up to me looking through his one black glass eye and told me
"Say four of the most profound words you ever said."
The hissing stopped,
The light died,
I looked into his magic eye and said
"My sparkler went out."

You are only as beautiful
As the scent of your soul;
And gasoline can't seem to light any fire
But your own.
Wrapped up in twine tighter then your grip,
Pull the string, I'll spin fast enough to forget your face
Again.
One, two, three spokes and sticks
To scrape the cornea of a third eye,
Barely wide enough to see freckles on your face.
Painting sidewalks red with chalk
To hide blood from Christmas morning,
Ignoring every warning;
Do you think leaves brown and fall to die without a meaning?
Palms up, veins sprawled,
Come inside and prove yourself to the rusted copper sign on my spine,
Warning of a fine line.
Splatter spatter dots and scrapes
On the white wall beneath a triangle window,
Crossing a bridge you swore you'd ignore
Back to the soles of my shoes.
Red white and black or blue,
What's it matter when my bones and blood are no longer bruised.
And it doesn't make sense why we don't hold hands,
And why we can't help singing the words to our least favorite songs.
Today I heard you breathe,
Saw you bleed and slam a fist on the table,
Because for every flower that wilts and dies,
A secret garden dances ballet toward torn petals,
Blooming blue from red.

You said, "I'm going to college—I'm not dying",
but you might as well have.
Now you exist to me as the dead do—
As a ghost;
an old photograph;
a sigh.

You haunt me
in old Chet Baker songs;
at four in the morning
when I wonder if you still suffer from insomnia;
when I walk down Broad with sweaty palms;
or even that nickname—I always hated that name—
but I liked the way it sounded when you said it.

And you're alive—
picking your fingernails; breathing—
when I can't stand the lights
and I shut the door to let
darkness settle in my skin; into my pores; in my head.
It's then when I realize:
I've never felt more human—
and my heart has never been so raw.