So pretty to look at, so perfectly sharp!

I was compelled to touch you–

You invited me to touch you,

Only to prick my innocent fingertip.


Crimson droplets dappled the snow, and you laughed

At my tears. “Why?” I cried. “Why?”

A cool prism, you glared at me,

“It’s your own damn fault, darling, you pressed too hard.”


I reached up for you and plucked you from your friends.

Craaack!  A cold so hateful, I

Thought you might blister my pink palms.

But I held tight, squeezing you with both hands. You


Began to grow thinner and thinner. Then I

Was the one laughing as you

Drained away, running down my arms

And puddling at my feet. I used to love


You. You never loved me. Now you won’t hurt me

Ever again.




Yesterday I was young,

Eyes bright that never grew tired–

Bold eyes comprised of winter water

From the great grey North Sea.



Cal-i-for-ni-ahh beach

Skin, sun kissed–mwah! Childish

Feet earth dirty, and grass stained toenails.

Yesterday I was young,


And my hair was golden,

Blinding strands, whirly twirly in

The breeze. I was young just yesterday.

I woke up old, today.


I woke up old today,

dull eyed and thin skinned, onion white.

My long strong hair is gossamer now.

Yesterday I was young.



He visits the beachfront every night

And shouts her name at the ireful sea. He stands at the rock-strewn coastline,

His tall frame stooped and shaking

As the frigid tides break before him.


He laments the woman who haunts him—

The Archer, a living ghost.


His heartache is a fury that its vessel cannot hold;

Passion erupts from deep chambers, guttural—

Clashing with the salty, bitter wind. With every heave of his broad chest,

The waves too, heave.


The waves, they swell and snarl,

Violent in their boldness.


Each night he stands at the edge of his country,

At the edge of his sanity, and curses her name until the sea threatens to rise up

And consume him. He advances upon the charge,

But all the white horses fall back and fade,


And he casts his dull, unblinking eyes to the Heavens—

The Heavens, which he denies exist.


Hanging in the black, his moon glares brightly upon him.

“I hate you,” says the moon with her voice.

“And I, you,” answers the man,

As she retreats behind the passing shrouds of grey.


I lived inside you once—

Cleaned up the cobwebs collected in your corridors

And threw out the trash so there’d be room

To fill you up with only me.


I lived inside you

And you inside me.


You lived inside me—

Still you do, among the cobwebs re-collecting in my corridors

And all of your fucking trash, so there is no room

For anyone else but you.


You live inside me

And I used to inside you.


I hope he stumbles over relics—

Kicks up the dust.

Chokes on the dust.


And I hope too, that you know it is not a raging wind

Howling through your October trees

Keeping you awake at night.


It is the howling of my raging heart.


I lived inside you once,

Catacomb heart—

Cleared the cobwebs collected in your corridors,

And threw out the trash so there would be space to fill

You up with only me.



In his dreams, she dances

In and out of shadow and luminescence.

Her liquescent movements are reminiscent

Of a languid flame that once danced for the rose candle,

Which now sits cold, useless—

Dead since late October.


He breathes deeply scents of

Sandalwood and rose, the essence of her hair.

He tastes the redolence of gin and tonic,

And the tang of menthol ciggies cleaving to her tongue—

Senses living, ever

Lasting in October.


He hears her breath, rhythmic

Against a backdrop of fall rain. Soft sputters

Splatter gently upon the cold windowpane—

The melody of October unjust, justified.

Song of amour, ever

Low, ever fleeting…


He awakes in the night.

She is there in the black, low-slung and callous—

Phantom in the guise of a satellite,

Casting her hateful white light through the thin window shade,

Ever mocking, ever

Static in October.