1692.

The emptiness of
bones as reminders of life
is found in their breaks.

1691.

All these mirrors will
never reflect the person
I see under skin.

1690.

The lure of Kaufman
is a constant overture
to amnesia's need.

1689.

I miss the warmth of
arms that understood the depths
of melancholy.

1688.

Between us we lob
these words of love and resent
like soft explosions.

1687.

My heart is an ode
built in your honor, now left
to suffocation.

1686.

Summer is this fast
thunderstorm looming its slow
pressing destruction.