Still Writing About Green Eyes

I am afraid

I have a stalled-out

car heart

and all I can think of

are broken wings,

clouds moving across a perfect


held there 


the kisses of buttercups

just inches

above our noses.

Blue sky,

I remember why

I loved you.

And I could write out

every reason

in perfect order.

Why couldn't I do that


green eyes

stared into mine

and why

is destruction

the only way

to figure out what's beautiful?

I need you

to tie me

to the pyre

I'll light the fire

with a match far more

than pure desire

struck against

my sponge-dry tongue.

If I can feel that desolate

pain I'm sure

I could still

love you and make


out of words

that were


to live in.

It's always grief 

that makes a poet,

as it is sound that

makes the quiet

and lightning that makes the tree fall

in the middle of

the mouthless forest

with a crack so loud

it's like a heart breaking.

But nobody hears that sound

until its their own

[heart breaking]

So hand me the match.

The End

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