i will tell you my stories

this world could fit on a postcard

but betrays the bounds of envelopes

and symbolism

as we project ourselves

through simultaneous space

light particles ricocheting from one to another

we find that our stories

have fewer neat corners

and need two or three sides

of the page

a sudden shift

and the screeching of tires

i'll tell you my stories

again and again

until I find you

so deeply within them

i realize i

am satisfied with your

head nuzzled in to my neck

and a pen

Inkwell

you escaped the inkwell

a very long time ago

somehow it feels like

spilling more ink

might just

coax you back in

if i wrote you once

i can write you again

but it will not be the same

your ink soaked handprints

have long since faded

Shadows in a Dark Room

you smashed porcelain angels across my back

and left webs of silk and gossamer trailing through orbit

disrupting the ellipse of our inadequacy

gradually our understanding of each other collided

and drifted away

(drifted away and collided)

in to asteroid belts and comet trails

drawing a trail of smashed kilns and dangling ideas

our skin was hewn with stitch marks and craft glue and scars

criss-crossing at uneven and impossible angles:

the road map of our dysfunction

came with no legend

Crickets

the coy instant of darkness when

the crickets stop chirping

seems so full of

something

you can't help but wonder if

violins can form holy symphonies of their own accord

this wonderment is betrayed

by remembering the violinist

whose virginity you stole and

quickly wishing for dawn like you hope she wasn't

things cease to obey the bounds of reason

as you expand outward from a moment of percussion

you wonder if she heard horns.

she probably didn't hear horns.

i hope she didn't hear violins.

that moment shouldn't ruin darkness for anyone.