Another requisitely, resolutely melancholy poem. Although I think the imagery has improved somewhat. I still have to work on tone, though.


Here I am:
a heart-shaped cookie
sleeping in your hand,
then your scruffy pocket,
melting because

Reality has failed:
you were supposed
to devour me,
eat my vanilla existence
until all I had left

Were the crumbs I started with.

There you were:
head barely cradled
by a pillow of your own hair,
a vaguely slighted halo,
lopsided like

Your take on life:
a slice of the surreal,
gingerbread waging
spun-sugar warfare
over sweet loves and

Buttered brevets unjustified.

Where we stood:
a creme brulee dream
to convey serendipity,
as if the colors of yesterday
would melt into

Something fastuous:
attic candy
to cure the senseless
and awaken what my heart
had forged long ago,

Glucose for your appetite,
my soul.

Toothache. Cavity. And all those other self-berating words.