Tiptoe on eggshells
yolk spills onto the floor
where she soon follows.

She's a wind-up toy
spins like a top
unravels at the seams.

You can't fix what's wrong with her.

Fingers trace your spine,
feel the strength there,
the ripple of pleasure
as we turn another page,
savor the words etched
on each other's lips,
enter a new chapter.

Without warning
my mind is hijacked,
gnarled fingers
wrap their frozen tips around
the bone deep ache inside.

Shiver against
long days, even longer nights.

Brilliant blue skies replaced
with gray mists, needle-like
in precision.  Sharp points of
awareness beneath
death's grip.

Rise against
right now.  Breathe.

Hidden in the ashes
a crumpled heap emerges
black and bruised,
limping blindly through
a cloud of smoke.

Consumed by her own
self-induced disaster
she chokes on
what could've been
and what's left.

Through the fog
an errant memory
pierces her heart.

He asks, "Would you?"

She closes her eyes
before she falls again
and through the pain, says,
"Not even if you were the
last man on Earth
because
these things always end badly."

Sticky yellow squares
float in the air,
giving purpose
to what not to miss
with their good intent
of what you don't want to forget.

A day's worth of notes
of things you wrote
scribbled across
thoughts not lost
firmly held in place
just in case.

I'm nonplussed
by the ease
in which you divide
your heart,
subtract any decency,
and carry yourself
with less than the whole person
you could be
if you didn't equate
a lack of intimacy
with someone else's
borrowed time.
You degrade yourself,
making multiple errors
instead of getting to the root
of the problem.
You don't understand my quizzical stare?
Let me sum it for you.
You're on a slippery *****,
unable to function.
Nothing you do adds up.

Colossal mistakes on a bed of regret
leave a bitter taste
speared by a forked tongue.
Wash down the fact
you're bound to run out of breath
when your fantasy fades
into deep nothingness.