memoirs in our blood.

i've got a pocket full of change
and nothing to spend it on.
'cause the wishing wells have all
run dry
and there's no advice i care to
buy. so as we sit amongst our
fallen brothers, one of them a
traitor,
i'll count each coin for all
it's worth and
wait
for an answer.

poison.

no one really likes it here but
everything is in a name, and
frankly there's nowhere else
to go.
so while he's off playing hero for
another girl, she'll spend time
fighting her own demons throughout this
god forsaken town.
with a passive aggressive tone and
guns hidden in a drawer for
use at any time.
she'll wait for a door to open and
the world to swallow their sorrows
whole.

the day you left.

every day, the same image,
playing in my mind like a
movie reel.
sometimes, it flickers,
cigarette burns.
but always the same scene
with the same ending and
the same pain,
replaying.

the winchester pub.

you'd know her when she
walks through the door,
head down, back erect.
the sway of her hips says she's
got experience but
the shift of her eyes tells a
modest tale. it's true
she doesn't have much but she's
got the best intentions.
and all she needs to know
is if she wants it to
hurt.

that word you can't remember.

i love the smell of formaldehyde on a
friday afternoon,
the feel of heavy white coats and
the weight of you on my mind.
as i busily slip away i
realize i never really followed
social politics.
i see i can't erase you
from my thoughts and i
smile.

autumn.

there's nothing like cold october rain
hitting bare skin,
glistening.
it gets colder as the day fades,
the full moon shines
through the fog and
the air is bracing.
she tip toes through
falling leaves,
wet,
and wonders
why.

love.

i keep losing track of days,
losing sleep.
they say i just can't manage time but
i don't think time exists at all.

and i try to form marks on the wall,
to tally up the moments passed.
'cause you keep saying "love"
as if it  means something.

i don't think i understand
anything.

pronouns.

give me one more interruption,
a ringing phone or a
knock on the bolted door.
i can feel our feelings gather,
and crash as the tide does to the shore.
and i can feel us drifting,
"we" is slowly morphing into
"i".
we should have been prepared for this,
i,
i should have known.

the elephant in the room.

well, now the magic number's 5,
but you wouldn't know that.
'cause you're floating free somewhere,
exposed to the elements and
without care-
while i'm left feeling awkward
at every turn.

i know you would hate what i've become.
traipsing around with a boy
you would have shot by now,
getting ink'd, staying out,
blasting music you couldn't stand and
over quoting oscar wilde.
but, i don't know what else to be.

sorry.

anam cara.

i knew when i saw you standing in
that hall,
khaki shorts and soda stained shirt
admiring children’s art
that we would be together.

i find now
a year has passed and it’s not quite
how it was-
yet it hasn’t changed one bit.

you see, we’ve left our footprints
on the very start of each other’s paths.
so every time we turn to look,
we’ll know how the journey began.

and even when there are bends in the road
i like to think we will remember one another,
how we looked into each other’s eyes
and our souls sang.

the junk drawer.

there’s a drawer we go to
with all of our worries.
we like to think it’s full of
useful things.
full of magic and secrets.
but really, it’s just
full of junk.

and maybe that’s where i’ll
store our memories.
your pictures and
my love for you.
so when i go looking for something useful
i’ll remember
to look elsewhere.

guilty pleasures.

do you know the sound of clothes falling to the floor?
sweet sounds of summer,
the humming of a broken fan and
a lustful song.
he smelled like chlorine and
tasted like citrus.
i could feel the earth moving, spinning, tumbling.
it moved for us and
only us.

maverick.

if only i could crawl into the cold, dark earth-
buried underground in a moist fog,
hearing cleansing rain pounding on the ground,
trickling down my skin.
i want to ride the wind-
let gusting air penetrate every fiber of my being
and carry me away.
whisk me through the sky and over beautiful landscapes,
scattering me over fields of swaying grass-
of dense forests and snow capped mountains,
of everywhere untouched by man.
all i want is to be free. free from here. free from there-
free from him and him and her.
and i hope as i'm carried away by a western wind
or a flowing stream,
that the feeling is mutual.
for i'm the type who's meant to be alone-
a free spirit, waiting for mother nature to
pull me to her.

siren's song.

when he was just a little boy
he'd spend hours by the sea,
over turning every rock that
he could find.
now a man, he counts the tides
and notes where ocean
meets the sky.
"what's past that point?"
he'd often ask.
and always someone sighed,
"there, my dear, the mermaids dance,
and drowning lovers cry."

gone.

ashes blowing in the wind-
a sign of no remorse and
rash reactions.
the energy has changed
twice over.
the places you’ve been are
now cold. alive.
the very walls breathing
a sigh of relief.
the emptiness now soothing-
familiar, irrational,
final.

buried reflections.

there are cracks in the walls of this old house,
where memories have seeped inside.
in one, i’m running through
dew covered grass
while you drink black coffee and
smoke a cigarette pulled from a
red and white pack.
by now the smell of smoke has faded and
memories like this one keep
slipping through the cracks.

i often find myself sitting in that
coveted grass
mowed 4 years over, sun dried and
full of weeds,
wondering what you’d think of me.
‘cause i’m still as unsure as that girl you knew
and i still can’t pronounce ‘marlboros.’

maybe it’s best i don’t know you now-
and you're just one more thought to
nestle into this place we made home.

just a thought.

old habits die hard.

old milwaukee in a cold glass mug
on a hot summer day.
a crisp, yellow color and a
bitter sweet scent.
white froth hits your mouth and you
flip something on the grill.
“go get me a pack of cigarettes…
please.”
i always liked to open them and
sometimes i dreamt of their
smoky taste.
but as you lit up this time you told me
you were dying.
you breathed deep,
exhaled your life.
and i still wonder what it tasted like.

sun shining on her glass case.

she looks like a porcelain doll,
and has the morals of a sinner.
“do you want to share your feelings?”
“no, not really.”
but if you wind this key just right,
clockwise,
she’ll start to scream.

nothing good to say.

lost lingerie and
a new tube of red lipstick.
your cries of passion are
a mimicry of something
sinister.

i hate you.

ink and chemicals,
60 dollar co pays.
tell me you love me?
“i love you.”
soaked handkerchiefs and
blood spotted tissues.
do you think i’m good enough?
coffee stains,
a battered copy of
lolita.
i asked, do you
think i’m good enough?
“you’re perfect.”
water proof mascara and
torn contact lenses.
screaming, begging,
do you love me?

but later never came.

my mind keeps flashing
to the day you said goodbye.
do you want to go for a ride?
no. i’ll stay home.
summer sun shining on your face
by the open doorway.
i can smell cleaning products
in the next room,
and i can feel my agitation
rising.
are you sure?
yeah, i’ll stay home.
“okay, i’ll see you later.”
the creak of the screen door
and everything okay.