I know we’re all just walking each other home,
but their hands are so very cold.
Their cobweb blankets twinkle like Christmas lights in the morning,
but by moonlight they quiver.
I miss watching black ice reflect cleanly off your irises;
I miss chinks in my armour more, though.
And everytime I open my mouth,
it only seems to send postcards devoid of destination.
And so I ask: What’s the point of writing poetry
if you’re no longer here to feel it?
Art: Caitlin Peck
Taste of Heaven
When I can’t sleep/ And no one’s up but the mice/ and my roommates are humming goodnight in their / beds / I tell myself I’m keeping watch/ For them/ And letting them drift into the inky unknown/ well my eyes are trained/ for the unknown that is dangerous/afterall/ the world is not a good place /for young women
Ode to You
My roommates used Your old printer
(I still think of it as yours)
And I couldn’t explain to them
I’m glad everything reminds me of you-
I just wish it didn’t make me so damn blue
And I know I’m not supposed to say this-
But death scares me less now
For I know there’s a chance I’ll be reunited with you.