something like glass hammers.

this.
late night written remorse.
it's like molding glass hearts
with hammers.

and I've become afraid.
of asking about love. because one day
the answer might not be as appealing
as I hope. so I'm just living.
and hoping to not die alone.

and tonight. I want to fill a glass for once
instead of drinking it empty.
-to the rim. with salt water and sympathy.

and it's times like this-
I miss the late night romacnes with [empty] glasses
while I'm tossing quarters at moving cars.
and I wonder- if my loose coins on the highway
makes change when the echoes hit those ears.
because for me- sleep never comes easy
anymore.

and it's almost how I can still hear that broken breathing
catching metaphors in heartbeats
and doing dances to the pulse of poetry.
like. stucco footprints. the sand is stuck in the shape
of glass.

and it's shattering.