I remember the first night I slept with you in your arms,

while dreams were to soon pour over my body like I was more than ready to not be inside it anymore…
that day it became apparent that writing about other people was more dangerous than believing we deserve things only misery can offer…

being high, I once thought, was a dumpster you dive through for scraps of memories I tried so hard to get away from…
but… when the flower of writing begins to wither,
and each letter that meets the dead end of a sentence, that will unfortunately NEVER, be enough to simply explain… that… you’re beautiful….
you’re so beautiful…
a garbage can is loved by a writer.

The ink stains now grasping the once empty paper;
the papers chewed away by the fist I threw into it,
(tragedy is a voiceless silhouette a writers eyes play staring games with)
stares back to me the way children seldom imagine the arms of their sober parents comforting them.
I saw how my mother,

dearly removed the strains of happy smiles,

tossing off the rims of her chapped lips into a bowl she could easily… flush away…

her wide eyes, I keep thinking, might soon adore her pagan son.