I used to write poems

about the colors of your eyes

with a stomach full of butterflies.

But now I write words

about the voices in my head

and how I wish I were dead.

You used to promise

premonitions of coffee shop dates,

with lovely, meaningless debates.

But now your voice rumbles

like thunders, storms, hurricanes,

like a monsoon, an eternal rain.

We used have a love

and the stars sang of us,

and how our love was so wondrous.

But now sorrow escapes within

and purple clocking bruises fade

back to shades of caramel skin.