Where is the thrill in the tranquil,
The furnace in placid solace?
What’s left to do when a puzzle’s full
But admire its emptiness?
Who else but our flawed reflection
Can we see hope of redemption?
Why do we yearn the fulfillment
Of fixing something so condemned?
We do not fall in love with people
But with madness and with broken things.
We crave to heal and mend the heart,
To sew the pieces torn apart.
We think that love rewards at last
So we take pieces of ourselves
To fill, and glue, until, alas—
I’m trying. Believe me, I am.
But it’s hard for me to try again
When I’ve loved and lost and forgotten.
Watching you love apart from me
Was pain as much as clarity;
Endured, inured, deceived my heart
Until you were a memory.
Now here we are where we began—
Divergent roads converged in Rome.
You’re asking me to overturn
A love that died and made to burn.
What lies beyond I cannot say,
But this one thing I know for sure:
What love will be won’t be the same.
Gentle tearing of inhaling;
Lucent ember, before fading.
Within my chest, a certain calm,
A fire no fire can reach.
Another shot of tequila
Tearing my throat on its way down
Into my heart — a benign warmth,
A violence of benevolence.
We fall in love with the feeling
Of fire igniting our souls,
So even if we burn to ash
At least we lived before we died.
I was there at the beginning;
You were almost drowning
And I was barely on land.
I dug my feet into the sand
And tried to reach out for your hand
But you didn’t know how to reach.
You spent your days on the brink of death
It became the way you lived.
And so I thought that if I dived
In too you’d come ashore with me.
I was right, and I was wrong;
I’m gasping, and you are gone.
I see the appeal of the sea—
But now I see a hand.
Was it something I said?
Just yesterday we were almost
In love and making plans for tomorrow
And I swore our words were woven
We didn’t stop until you
Fell asleep without a
My screen lights up—it’s not you.
What are you doing?
My mind spirals down endless
Possibilities and of all of them
I choose the one that hurts the most
She told me how she loved to read,
Yet words were never what she loved;
She loved the places in her head,
Knowing full well they don’t exist.
I never could fathom the way
She made those places come alive.
So real to her, to me surreal—
I tried but never could believe.
Maybe that’s why she couldn’t stay;
She pictured us transcending pages
While I remained in this quatrain—
What love she loved I could not give.
I think it was ’bout half past five
The hour before the sun took form,
I think I laid on half a couch
My head still spun from all the shots.
I don’t quite know in which order
I gagged and spat and coughed and yawned,
Yet in the darkest before dawn,
Amidst the silent anarchy
Of clouded senses and sadness
A portion of my mind was clear.
So much that night I don’t recall
And yet I can’t seem to forget
You—the reason why I drank at all.