I could hear the wind,
rustling through your veins, when
you opened your mouth and the gnarled wings of a hummingbird fell out.
I could taste the regret,
on your skin, when
you told me you would love me,
It was all
the burn of citrus in a papercut that
just won't heal.
I open my eyes, and I see your face burned
into the stars
I guess that's why I try to figure out
how the ancients picked which gods to tell stories about.
How I picked you.
And it's hard,
seeing the shirt you wore on our first date
on another person
crossing the street.
your mother's favorite flower
resting on the side of the highway.
They fill my nose with smells that remind me of
the color of your eyes and
the brush of your fingertips against my lips.
It's Monday, and I should be sitting in a coffee shop,
leaning in to kiss
because her laugh is like
and her eyes remind me of
the forests of the town I grew up in,
nostalgic for a time that has never been stumbled upon.
it's Monday, and
I'm sitting here alone in
this tiny room,
drunk on wine and
the sound of a piano in the distance,
playing our song,
wishing for the sear of a cigarette
between my teeth.
It's a quiet night, and
I can hear the sound of
your heartbeat in bed next to me,
even over the
shouting blue and the
It's thumping out a melody,
whose words are fluttering in
through the curtains
on a spring breeze,
and as I lean into the caress of the air,
I can hear you,
to never trust
a happy song.