Your warm breath erases my
Love letters written on cold,
Foggy windows... The sea waves
Mock the sand castles and
Take back what's rightfully theirs.
My longing rises like ash from
A funeral pyre but the bruises
Of waiting all day long don't
Douse or die.
The unwounded skin screams
For attention and all I have
Are empty rivers and it hasn't
Rained here in a while.
The only intimacy I've had with
Myself, is a stress-driven streak of
Nail biting and hopeless visibility of
Fallen hair on the floor for
Disappointment, each morning.
I sweep it every night with the broom
To forget. But what can be done
With the dust that sticks to the broom?
The nightmares are roaches that
Choose to stick.