I write to midnight
To ghosts, trying to stay sober
To soldiers with tattooed arms
To the architect of my dreams
To supernovas and black holes
To burning bridges
To the rain
a Jackson Pollock painting
love has this in common with cigarettes
too much fire will burn it up quickly
too little, and it won’t burn it all
the moon is jealous;
summoning the night to obscure you
the sun is no better;
her light shines to make us part, our bed
well, I don’t want to be drunk again
scrolling through your Instagram page
playing spin-the-bottle with ghosts
and recall how you moved in me
if only your new girlfriend knew how to read the lines in your face!
these paths on which I have tread
these maps of love
I sent you roses, you sent me a suicide note.
her lips are fire engines,
kindling the stars in her eyes.
the cracks in my ceiling are eerily familiar
I keep waiting for the blood to seep through the gashes.
I texted you, late last night
strange how the characters turned into
streaks as I pressed send
almost as if I had been weeping
no pushups, no touchups, no cover-ups, no makeup, no nothing, bare, naked, vulnerable, undressed in the most intimate way, the flesh stripped of its other flesh, the one that conceals and deceives, and underneath it, my darkness that destroys your beautiful myth of the bare, naked soul that is visible through the bare, naked skin