to the faith who convinced me it would be enough, sometimes i worry that if poetry and calcium is a thick enough thread to run through our veins and tie us in pretty, pretty knots, would we live much longer than three? when i touch the rain-drops that glisten down my window, urge the left one on, and think - what if we were rain-drops, sole purpose to follow the caress of gravity, down, down, ever down.
if ache was a color, would it be the shade that his cheeks turned when i questioned the availability of truth?

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to you. just you is all that is necessary, it's hard to remember your name or identity or reason anymore. i couldn't find my sharpie last night, so i scribbled lines in ball point pen, ones that deviated into hate and the kind of panicked tears that drip off the end of your nose. i have your name tattooed under my tongue, in the creases of my palm, and it's slipping downwards, joining what i fought.

i promised you, i did. does this count as stupid, then? i could vouch for the intelligence of ending a fault, or for the deficiency involved with continuing a pointless pursuit. icouldicouldishould, you know.

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to the stuttering beat of that robin's heart, i could have ended you with a touch at the wrong angle. there was a desperation in the way you fought to push his chest in&out, a thirst that i want to bottle and sell as perfume, to inject some grit into the deflated apathy of this world. a strangled music note tried to force its way out of the push and pull of your smooth muscle, tried to make beauty out of the destruction of a feathered life.

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to letters. i hate the rhythm of your name.