When a drawer closes

maybe it was my subconscious, but i never put his picture in my locket and he kept his hands in his pocket the last time we talked it was not a real conversation, but an obligatory exchange with silence so strange that i could taste the change. now that naked locket sits in a drawer and my mind wanders back to times of before when hands weren’t in pockets but reaching for more and my heart was open instead of sore. but though things didn’t turn out how i supposed a little bit sore is still better than closed, and when this heart heals it’ll be strong, locket resting against it, inside a picture that belongs.

just a draft

What is there to write about besides love or the lack of, it seems every song that’s ever been sung is about one or the other, rhyming sob stories of the quest for a lover resonating through the airwaves so strongly that we feel them; these feelings make us go reeling til floor becomes ceiling and we melt til we’re kneeling; wait calmly for the healing to carry us away from the place that we don’t want to go. And so it goes til what’s left is A Lack of Love Poem echoing the words she won’t show him, cause now she doesn’t know him. But a poem’s just a draft unable to capture how they once laughed, a fainted outline where once was a painted skyline of a city only they knew of, where they roamed the streets and home was where their bodies could meet, and all fleeting moments were immortalized in smiling eyes that did not look at, but truly saw the splendor in the flaws, in the city that was all theirs. Where they could saunter about or shout and yell four letter words that start with L, cause they knew how to live, and their Love Poem was the city’s only law. The train to take them there only runs after midnight behind closed eyelids, but at least the ticket is free.

bad days

thinking about it still makes me quietly hyperventilate and honestly a little nauseous even, and i wonder why the fuck i still care at all. it's the little tiny things that set it off; usually it's just one word that really hits me. it's realizing that this epic story i built up in my head was over years ago, and no one reads it anymore, except for me.

another poem she won't show him

Your voice, just stay quiet
your choice to lie it
caused a riot
in my mind it
turned my breath into a sigh it
makes me ask why it
should be your words still ring in my ear
like birds that always reappear
just when I heard the coast was clear
I use my voice to drown out yours
my muse, it silently stirs
while I choose my next verse
until your voice in my head is no longer a curse

compatibility

tell me your story and I just might tell you mine
not the watered down version, either
("I wasn't myself, but now everything's fine!")
I could talk, I could listen, or neither
but I have secrets on the tip of my tongue
and your eyes tell me you do as well
there are stories in me that want to be sung
when you look in my eyes, could you tell?
see, I twist my rings too much
am afraid to be touched
and can live on a latte and a prayer
my thoughts are reckless and free
but they're locked with no key
except your curiosity, if only you'd care
so let's sit for awhile til our words form a pile
right between us, perfectly round
our stories no longer separate, all our lost thoughts now found