silent cries

i’m aghast at the thought of your trembling
blood-dripping knuckles.
i was broken by the hands of an angel.
i was molded back together by the devil’s grout.
i have a thousand theories on why we didn’t work.
our friends have a thousand more.
that connection is still there;
it never goes away.
not fair for the current partner
and whoever may be next.
i haven’t heard from you in a minute.
i dreamt of an alternate universe last night
where we were together
and it was divine;
i’m still depressed it wasn’t reality.
miss me like i miss you?
i think you do, but one never really knows.
drops of silence. drops of silence.

you only have this moment

“he was taken from us too soon”
will never be uttered
by anyone at my wake.
“he lived a full and fantastic life”
will be the only words you’ll hear,
except, maybe,
“i’m surprised he lived this long”
but either way,
thinking about it makes me smile.
i kinda think death is scared of me.

dull living

living a dull life is the antidote
to creative writing,
so i head to the bar to jolt
my dead thoughts.
the bartender –
i like the way she pours my drink,
but especially the way she sucks
on the ice before placing them
in the cup.
shake it. stir it. rock it.
tell me about those tattoos.
tell me about your problems.
give me ideas. give me something.
give me anything.
i’ll siphon the perspiration
off your toes
for inspiration.
i’m begging you,
on my knees with
the tap in my mouth,
fill me up with stories.
it’s a sad day when the bar
can’t even act as a defibrillator
to a wretched life.