there are holes in our hearts, and they bleed tangerine juice--

sweet upon tongues, sticky on fingertips;

carve me into the effigy of an angel and let me sit atop your altar,

keeping you company even when words fail and the night closes in;

for if you ever look for me, my love, look beyond the place where darkness falls,

where the twisted wraiths burn temples to our brokenhearted brothers,

lost in the dusky nothingness and the thick smoke that fills our lungs,

rendering us to ashes, falling softly to ruin, crumbling to pieces at your touch;

i’m here, my love, no matter how many times the sun sets;

you can find me between the lines of a well-worn book, dog-eared on all the wrong pages,

rushed notes scribbled in the margins in a heavy crimson ink--

is it blood? i do not know, and you seem unwilling to tell--

and our bodies intertwine, two hearts singing the same song,

two mouths breathing the same air, one mind saying the same words,

words like ‘i love you’ and ‘i know’, ‘i’m here’ and ‘i’m not going anywhere’,

snippets of truth and fractured freedom and promises that shall never truly be broken;

for not even the darkness that spans us can separate our souls, not even the

slippery sirens singing songs of silence and shattering sorrows

shall send us back to whence we came,

because together, we are whole;

this is an elegy to the brokenhearted,

to the dreamers,

to the wonderers,

to those who live in the shadows,

to those who feel as though the world may just swallow them whole

and spit them out, chewed, chained, chastised, into hell

to burn in halfhearted rapture and manic sorrow for the rest of their days.

this is an elegy to you, my love, and to me, and to us;

perhaps even the stars fade away, my love,

yet we will not,

for it is not our earthly time to depart;

breathe me in, our hearts in sync,

our lips whispering frantic prayers to some unknown deity--

one who may never answer our calls,

but what have we to lose but ourselves--

and follow me through the darkness.

i’ll weave you a moon/ from jellyfish tentacles/ and hang it/ upon the wall/ we’ll make this our temple/ of butterflies and moondrops/ and sing an elegy/ to the brokenhearted

i’ll paint you a sky/ with the colors of your eyes/ and savor it/ upon my lips/ the taste mingling/ with your name/ drowning out the iron/ and salt/ and unsaid words

i’ll sculpt you an earth/ from tangerine peels/ and breathe in/ the petrichor/ feel the bark peeling/ upon the trees/ hear the frogs croaking/ in the dead/ of night/ calling us home

i’ll build you the world, darling

should i ever go, my darling

bury me in roses

and let the crows

feast upon my bones

the sunset glides

in violent tides biding its time

until you finally die

and lie inside

those hollow bones

of smoke and frozen stones

that years ago you

called home

and that day you will pray

to stay and gaze

upon my radiant face

and i will say

welcome home, my love

welcome home

lightly

on tips of toes

but stuck

the cold

hard earth and seemingly

six feet under but

she is the one

that was

left

B L U R

R U L B U

B LU R B L

L R U L B

U U

R R

Legs tangled in a mess of linen sheets

the night is hot and humid, settling on our lips

a kiss from the looming palm trees and waxy plants

outside is a symphony, the birds in the trees and the chickens in the coop

the white paint on the stairs peels away, leaving behind damp wood

for once, you're fast asleep, breath whistling lightly through the gap in your teeth.

short cropped hair brushing a freckled nose, red from work in the backyard, along with your shoulders and collarbone, traced by the moonlight peeking through gauzy curtains

I stop myself from brushing it behind your ear, instead smiling at how peaceful you look when you’re truly asleep.

there’s still some paint on your cheek, and you smelt faintly of gasoline

thanks love, you say, taking the lemonade from my hand, and wiping the sweat from your forehead, it’s starting to come together, isn’t it? I look at the shed, empty of its contents, groaning softly. yeah, I say, as I lean to pick up a can of paint. it sure is.

I press my nose against your forehead and you lean into my shoulder, skin sticky despite the desperate attempts of the swamp cooler. my eyes are tired, but my mind is not. I sigh softly, and you shift closer, even in subconcious, you fight to take care of me.

the sun has begun to peek over the horizon, and the floorboards grow warm in its light. I close my eyes for you, so that as you fix the rotting floorboards for my pottery studio, I can make you asparagus and scrambled eggs on toast as the waves crash against the coast in the distance and you sing along to the songs on the radio that i can’t stand (most of the time)

but for now, I lay with you, and wait for some form of sleep as the sun rises ever so slowly.

The girl was quiet, for once. she sat on the corner of the table, not speaking. She smiled without smiling, and listened without listening. she would never see their faces for what they were. a question crept her way, knocked its palm onto her forehead. Glancing at the floor, the plaster crumbling,

"i was bored again."

the smile was real.

the smile was real.

je vous vois

dans les tons de bleu

dans la pluie

vous dansez

et dans le gris

tu vois la beauté dans le ciel.

je te vois

et je ne vois que du bleu

pas lamentable

mais radieux

Q, votre âme est bleue.

et Q, le bleu est beau.

You tell my story like a Greek tragedy

a Romantic story of struggle for the ages

But perhaps, this is nothing more than a matter of a frail little boy

with a heart too big for his bruised chest.

no dancing happened in the ballroom,

but music always played.

The ballroom was too big.

a lone piano

and cloth-covered couches

protected from the residents within.

but that’s where we lived.

we glid across the fire floors,

beauty, but blinding

in the wide west windows.

sliding happened in the ballroom

in well-worn socks and on clean cloths.

falling happened in the ballroom

in sibling squabbles and

slipping on soapy water.

singing happened in the ballroom

metal chairs and projectors framing the stars,

the stars on the second floor.

transforming, learning happened in the ballroom.

from white walls and pictures hanging

to Santa’s workshop in November.

no dancing happened in the ballroom,

but the ballroom was always alive.