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“We were no more than a continuity problem.”
The words that broke to torn pages and marred lipstick
The words had barely ruptured relevance
Your tongue is more so serrated than the blade that made attempts on your life

...Another door meeting deafened steps the way looks tend to dissever composure
A crayon to color in her eyes or the reprisal…
.. Of a man willing to realign his palms to fit yours
I’m two cents short of a dizzy sleep to weigh heavy my eyes against the morning asphyxiated on the ceiling in a room we once kept

This is no more than a murder modeled after an angry boyfriend
But I can’t find that feeling
He’s a step from sanity and a shot in the right direction
A stab at an already bleeding hope:

We could keep the road in front of us blacked in white the way walking threw Michigan winters do the streets.
Just keep my hands tied to romanticism
These tears could freeze behind my eyes before the snow melts against my aging cheeks.
My lips could break the way lips do in the weather without the warmth of someone else’s.

Despondence
It’s the way I wake up to days I hate because the bite of the cold reminds me of a breath I took while immersed in you.
If I were under the gun my breathing would be a bit more labored
It’s the way I appreciate every scar and every reopened wound
However blind or bloody I’m still happily perplexed and short of bitterness
In love with an unwavering moment of a deafened sort of clarity and inconsistency without a withdrawal that feels like mourning sickness

“I still care.”
Keep those words
They keep me responsive
They keep me second best to loneliness
They remind me mediocrity is an addiction