you
have left me cold stones
still laden
with two in the morning tears,
asking me to dine with you
without noting
my mind's teeth are still sore
from the kick unseen.
this silence
must be the last days
a pair of broken shears
meant to cut away your misery must feel,
the reluctant crackle
one finds in campfires
and corner store cigarettes
that sudden snap between us.
bittersweet
is the merlot of minutes
made of seedless grapes
and stolen kisses,
yet nothing else
will help me deliver these stones
i only hope old happiness renewed
becomes the aftertaste.
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