I brush aside
apologies followed by
the same behavior.

One day feels like a thousand years.

Giving over
to nature’s righteous bells,
I insist on shadow play.

To be kept hidden, to be kept,
they made me their construct,
curves devoid of flesh.

I don’t see this as fiction.

I am more or less
a whore in sheep’s clothing,
taking my tea alone.

After the glow faded
to edges of tattered shadow,
we stopped dancing.

The lights flickered, leaving us
a delicate do-si-do, warped
like in slow motion,
a slide toward a sultry Armageddon.

No words to cling to,
we were two strangers again.

I’m ok. Thanks.
I saw a bird this morning
and it looked like it was sketching sunrise
but snapping the image with my phone
made it look like silly putty art.
I move through my days in a zig-zag pattern.
I’m so close to giving myself over
to the abandon of flourishes.
I am a peninsula.
I am shipwrecked
between the waste of anger
and the exhaustion of sadness.
I keep busy and am never anyone’s focus.
I keep pouring my love on parched lips
over and over
so it’s always gone too soon.
I sort through and file memories
in an imagined card catalog
that has my own special code
that will die with me
because when it comes down to it,
nobody really wants the burden
of others’ secrets.