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.