Mixtape

I.

Cross-legged, like a child

I listened.

Words filled me like wonder.

Carefully capturing every possible

underlying meaning to phrases

not written for me.

I think the first song said it best;

you haven't found them yet.

Everything that followed

only echoed letdowns,

alluding stepping stone status.

II.

Track four.

Way to ruin one of my favourite songs.

And almost John Mayer too.

III.

It should have ended

before it even started.

We'll never be each other's

Butch Walker.

Take your own tomorrow.

Sea-Saw

Ocean ballrooms.

Member's Only

waltz the way

Poseidon says.

(Sorry Simon)

Clover

Black cat lover has

eyes like traffic lights.

Misreading greens.

Trial Separation

Reminded me of

shared mortality

in our stipulations.

Funny to think

love was never

formally mentioned.

Language reeking

of something implied,

unspecified,

as of now negated.

Still it seeps between

affidavit prattle.

Pegasus

As a weapon, my voice

sang the rescue.

Ask the Lizard about

musical limbs and wait.

Wait.

In memory of trees,

my voice is a weapon.

Oh, Maiden of the Sea,

if what you need are

tattoos and books of

lost things, the latest plan

requires sober kings and

law-biding queens.

Bloodshot eyes.

Eryn's all grown up.

Dutch Feast

If I were flesh, I would have twenty:

a crown for you merely good 'til morning.

Shoulder bones, rib cage boundaries

only meant for me.

Seemingly different, captivating.

Living the worst because

it's scarcely short anyway.

I'm serious in my frivolous heroism;

if I was meant to save you

what choice do I have?

Sing it like "yeah."

We both know the end before I write it.

Chords. Chorus. Verse. Bridge.

Is the wait worthwhile, or

do these coffee cups pile

during a search for meaning?

Order change. Maybe no verse.

Purely Chorus.

Hammer home points of no return.

Barefoot memories dance in sand,

disregarding the foreshadowed rocks.

And quilted skies bode no response.

I should have known at seventeen,

but it took me twenty.

My shadow tried to warn me.

Proclivity

Skyscrapers.

I wish I towered too,

ocean views.

Even just elevation

would increase my

lacking stature.

But not to see

the sights she sets.

I know her propensity.

Board the windows.

No key.

Lazy Lids

Wonder, but never

full. She told me

my soul was half empty.

Maybe like a shoe

should be. I never listen

but blinking in sync

gets tiresome every

third round. I think

she caught me, but

I never really think

anyway. What would

you do with your

slipping lids?

Pack Leader

Her toe curled thoughts
left whipped cream trails for
my huddled half mind
to reconsider.

Last Stand

Posture junkie:
see things the way they’re
meant to be heard.
Think out loud to
crack a window;
and accordingly heads hung
for eyes to seal fates, float
the password to Wind.
Discretionitory sensory deficiencies,
or maybe we just held our
collective breath in mind.