someone's juliet

there
are more and more
of these nights now.

the: "under the sheets
I'm not coming
out never."
nights.

and
and then
your
corduroy\voice
shakes
me alive.

if a girl
who paints
on her
eyebrows
can
deal.

so can i.

and
so.

here i am.

writing alone,
to
a you that will
never
hear my
distant whisper
of praise
and love
and crushed cigarette hopes
and
it's
raining
in my soup again,
a plum
red sky
swallowed
all the decent in my bones.

what does
it feel like to wake up next to:
all you ever needed.

an empty? a want? a calm?
i don't
know
but i'd sure like to try it out
for a day or 10.

and
i
just know
you
are
are
are
definitely
someones juliet.

the problem with pictures

orange street lights,
serenade,
our dance.

boots kick
the sidewalk
slush.

i,
couldn't
wait
for
every
day to begin.

and
then
they all ended.

they all
gave out,
like a chair with
half sawed legs.

the ceiling
fan laughing
at me.

its cool.
its cool.
its cool.

i'll just
pretend.

i never fell.

and i'll keep all your secrets.
and i'll never give out your real name.
and i'll ever always never forget to remember
the day you left.

Dear Amanda

This one is for you.


its temporary blindness,
that thing,
the thing you're looking for.

the forgetting
all about the everything
of everyday.

the
one little hope
that tramples
its muddy feet
all over the carpet
inside.

and you don't
even get out the hoover
or
the scrubber.

because you like it messy.

its been too long.

its been too long,
but its right
there under
the blue
next door to green.

reach out
and take a swig.

he's standing
at your door.

forever, girl

dink-dank,
a long
handled spoon
againstaglass
of late afternoon iced-tea.

the sun melts
us.
sweating
away nevers
on a bruised porch.

our swing.
our life.
our kids.
our choices.

the plains
stretch
past the past
we left behind.

a newer
you,
the old me,
x's and o's.

forever, girl.
we said forever, girl.

and

she said:
i don't want to be
in love with you anymore.

he said:
i was never
in love with
you or anyone. i don't know
what love is, just like
jane says.

it's not
this, though,
the leaves
are a beautifulorange.

and
ya useta
smell so good,
like
the last day of school.

but
thats probably
not enough, that's not "it"
and won't be.
even even even
if we try harder and pretend
the yellow
brick
road
isn't specked
with blood.

will you
remember to
close the door
when you leave for a week
without saying bye. or hi, when you return
with bags under your eyes, and a new
smell.
a new, i'vefallenagainpleasehelp, smell.

and i do. and i do. and i do.

but this is the last time.
babe, this is the last time
I
fix you.

This time,

This time, it hurt.
This time, I believe you.
This time, he's not coming back.
This time, wasn't a mistake.
This time, the shoulder went missing.
This time, sorry was too late.
This time, we stopped forgiving.
This time, the bruise.
This time, you remembered the last time.
This time, there is no next time.