Love to write

He is a river
and the moment when the crayon
on the sidewalk melts under the pressure
of the sun. 

He has never told me so
but I am aware that he sings
and follows trains down their receding

You used to collect chasms in glass jars and verses under your bed. You used to smile at me. You were phosphorescence and I couldn't wash you off; I didn't want to.

I want you
on nights when the sky 
catches up with the morning moon
and my hands are weak 
from prying your words
out of the doorjamb. 

I awoke last night

Are we all one burning torch?

Is my head just a shell for their money? 
Is the sky a hole? 

Am I another cog in the wheel of time?
Stuck as another piece in the repetitive
puzzled cycle of knowledge,

The hole in the back of my mouth feels like a cavern,
something you could hide a runaway in,
someplace you could lose the enterance to.

The salad bowl on the top shelf
in the kitchen cabinet is dark blue