creativelycliche

a ringing in my ears like the echo of device, faded when I couldn't cry and thought that I had found the meaning in the bitter-taste of my own mouth - this is not a question asked but a question answered, left like footprints in the stone so I can still look back, remember all this silence like the sound that marks your absence my lungs are all askitter, but it is a faded scene on the back of a post-it note, the chipping paint on the rotting deck, forever this can be a kind of sweetness in the vein: cherry red, but no one left to taste it.

scent of sun on the tip of my tongue, like a hundred days without a smoke its a precipice I could step off of any day, and my fingers slip on the smooth stones without invitation shadow-lite, the morning is a tenuous thing filling cups with an empty promise, leaking out like heavy air in the atmosphere, glass dripping like melted plastic the breath from lungs so hot it turns it all to ash the light keeps blinking on and off, check the engine, check the sky for rain, check the water for unworn stones - leaving, it feels like I am leaving, with every shaken star, every shaky breath.

looked after my first delight like rainwater on a tin roof, anxiety and loud, loud, loud, and if I could see the end of it, I could wish I never would, wish that the only thing I ever heard was pounding so it drowned out the sound of you leaving, slipping through my fingers - prickly edged but vibrant, the light just keeps dissolving on my tongue.

categorically defined by insecurity and the vines that test my veins and the spongeified remains of my disintegrating brain - I've made up quite a scene inside my head for why the stars align like christmas lights in rows above my head, leaves me dizzy-ingly left of thinking straight, full of ill-direction and an unaccounted feeling of disdain; if it was easier to turn around I would, but my left hand has never known its right from all its wrongs, in certainty I'm sure the moon is innocent of all my crimes - I only wish the sun was so composed.

given to expression the heart can leave the well until it all runs dry, can let think get hard and fade off of our fingertips - what used to mark me washed away like petty dirt, when I once thought it cut me to the bone if all the cuts and blisters heal, I am afraid the crowds will forget my name - insistent that the loss has made me out, left me empty, like an old car with a new engine I wonder if I shall shake apart, a hum like a record before the music starts, the anticipation burns and I can sing again even if it's quiet - I will whisper if it means that the sun will warm my skin again - and smile like I never lost a thing.

three steps across the hallway and it left me breathless when I thought that I had found the air - a january child, pale and with the sunset on your shoulder it will fade, but let you in on secrets I have never learned - like how the frost can chill your skin but warm your bones, or how the light can catch your every breath - it is colder than arctic when I meet you for the first time, but the morning sun was brighter in my eyes.

the last bad thing is another empty glass on the bedside table, swept off in the morning to shatter by the trash can left you weary for the day that hadn't started, automatic lights and scented soap under your fingernails, we've always said the smell of death is timeless, but it lingers in the alcohol and acetone tastes like it shouldn't - solved: the very last bad thing to say good morning, rinsed down with the mouthwash and bad tea.

I wonder in the fall that year, did you tell them who I was, did you say I was in love or just a kid, typed out and tired from the margins of the things you knew you would forget did you say 'he's so in love with me', like you weren't in on it, twisted back your fingers 'till they'd break, lies like cigarette stains on your teeth did you tell them how the mornings came with you and I still breathless, longer nights, wondering if we would be a dream, or just dreaming that the sun that was ours would be forgotten, quiet nothings last forever and then fade away like the snap of teeth against the bit, it sounds like breaking down. did you tell them: 'this is the last time I will call, the last night I will think about him' or in the morning on the doorstep, did you forget to think about me at all.

I can't account for it, the loss of eras and the certainty that I'd still be here and here I am, a piece of glass refracting what I once thought of you, remembering the nucleic remnants of your breath, asking what it's like to know that I am all that's left, I can say the sound is like a ringing drum, shattered on the face of it, still tastes like blood along my tongue - but I relent; I guess I've missed you but you haven't missed me yet.

waiting, the insincere course of this inimitable disgrace, like vines trailing along her skin the black can only measure in the absence of this sin, a taste of bitter honey and to know that this is wrong, rot. rot. rot. the very touch of sun deserts her, the entropy in smoking lines along the sky, the better of the lies that left the rite in disarray, she asked her what was loss and in the end could only stay broken like an old cassette, the tape all tangled, not playing yet the signs all say it's fine, a memory we'd both regret and in the end think it isn't burning, just twisting in sublime sixth dimension, not smoking but stripping away reality just as well.