GreyBean

the creaking of the car 
reminds me of snow-trodden
highways
and wind that burns your face.
log cabins 
and grey lakes
are too bittersweet 
for my taste.
towering pine trees
and crackling fires

burnt toast wakes him up in the morning,
cold cups of coffee
and a yelping dog. 
half-smoked cigarettes
litter his tables,
flannel shirts and dirty socks
covering the wood floor. 

he doesn’t mind. 

I’ve never written sidewalk poetry,
but I want bouquets to arrive on my doorstep
and wonder who they're from. 

I want to meet my first love in an old bookstore
that’s being driven into the ground
by its owners. 

He drowns his plants
when he's bored,
but regrets it
when they die.
His house is like a
museum—
statues and sewn tapestries
all over. 
He imagines he's 
in the British countryside,

Honey skies
drown vineyards,
wine-red walls and Italian cupboards.

I sit and am stuck behind
the blank page. 
Grey clouds crackle with lightning,
but I don't feel the wind. 
I don't see the light. 

my simple little life is
gone
and i love him again.

i don't want to go,
but my feet are already outside 
the doorframe. 
i say good night to a past
and force my swollen eyes open.
i don't want my tears