Remember Me as a Time of Day

Remember me as

the cold midnight air

and as the golden dawns reflected

in your Skyline Eyes.

Remember me when

the sun slips below the horizon

and breathed beauty into

the cold concrete world.

Remember me like

the clouds that fade out of the sky,

when the heat makes us feel alive,

as we sleep and smile and sit very still.

And I can look out the window towards the sunset and the skyline...

Your fingers in mine used to be so tangible.

Now they are nothing but the silver lace of ghosts; Divine reminders of what I have Loved, what I have lost.

Your fading presence faded my very existence--changing the bright and warm summer smiles into worn and sun-bleached photographs, tearful and empty keepsakes beneath my cigarettes and pens that have long since spent their ink on you.

The days with you, surrounded by yellow and sky-blue, have been washed by loneliness and transformed into barely-glowing nights. Holding your hand and grinning against your lips has changed into applying crimson lipstick alone in the moonlight, and singing in a broken voice to beautiful songs that aren't nearly as beautiful when you are not here.

I hate what you've done to me.
I hate the way you've changed me.
I hate that you're not with me.
I Love you.

I barely knew her.

I talked to her once, maybe twice. If that.

But like. So many of my friends were so, so close to her.

People shouldn't just die.

Love Poem.

With my hand in yours,
I am safe;
your hand is warm,
and white,
and smooth.
It smells like brown sugar
and it looks like those moths
that flutter in the moonlight--
those moths that look
like they are made from the moonlight.

Let me come with you,
and we can sit
on the floor,
and we can surround ourselves with candles.
We can give wings to the ceiling
and as the roof flies away,
we can wish on the stars
and watch the flower petals twirl
in the nighttime breeze.

She's Afraid of Everything

The floor is white,
bleached, worn,
coated with layers and layers
of sand and rose petals.
There's a table
with a typewriter
and a candle.
The roar of the waves
is almost deafening.
Loud enough to shut everything out,
quiet enough to fade into the daylight.
The window is open,
the moth-eaten curtains flying up
with the wind.
The door is open, too,
crooked on its hinges.

Slow Dancing In a Burning Room

The pale lights that lit us up,
shining and beautiful,
dimmed slowly.
The bows that held us together,
slick with silk and moonlight,
began to slip.

So we gritted our teeth
and ounraveled ourselves;
Lace fell to the floor,
ribbon cascaded towards the ground like a starry waterfall.

We sat in the bright heat of daytime,
praying for the glare to wash out
what we once struggled to see by starlight.

We forgot all the the complexities and rhythms that used to define us,
forgot the steps to the waltz we once waltzed.
We stripped it to its moon-flooded skeleton--
my hands barely touching your shoulders,
yours afraid to hold me close.

note: the title belongs to John Mayer

When he first discovered his dentures in the garden,

hidden amongst the pinks and blues
of roses and violets,
he put his hand to his forehead
and allowed himself a tear.
The disease,
he thought,
has finally taken a hold of me.

He walked out of the garden
and into his house,
dentures in hand,
feet shuffling slower with each step.

That night, the dentures
are placed neatly by the sink,
next to an empty bottle
that once held almost thirty
little white tablets.
The man is in his bed,
fingers still,
the corners of his mouth turned down,
breath nonexistent.

And as he lays,
and empty shell on his
wife's old comforter,
too lost and hopeless to continue,
the door to his house creaks open.
A boy, oblivious
to the sudden absence of life,
passes the bedroom door
on his way to the bathroom.
He stops by the sink.
Shoving aside the empty pill bottle,
he grabs the dentures and leaves quickly,
hiding them once again
in the garden--
amongst the pinks and blues
of roses and violets.

author's note: the first line/title, again, is not mine. it belongs to either Jack Driscoll or Bill Meissner.

As the moon showed its face--

washing the black-reds of roses
with muted and shifting shine--
the night flowers bloomed.
With starlight they glowed,
they glowed until the first fire of sunrise was sparked.

I have let my fingers turn to glass,

and they are cool and smooth
as they wipe tears from your face.
They glow like crystal
as they gesture for you
in the moonlight.
They are tight and desperate
as they cling to your wrist,
keeping you from leaving
as the sun comes up.
And as you go,
wrenching your arm from my grasp,
my fingers shatter.
Luminescent shards litter
the nighttime ground
as I stand, silent,
watching you run towards the sunrise.
I realize, as the pain in my chest
mirrors the pain in my had,
that my fingers are not
the only thing that you have broken.




author's note: the first line/title isn't mine. it was written by Jack Driscoll / Bill Meissner.