Glass chips made of Moonshine

I turn the windshield wipers on

to see through the veil

of hail

that falls

during my forty-five minute morning commute

down a ten mile road.

I'm so quite

in the stillness

just listening to the click

of memory.

My veins are full of glass chips

like the coffee that you whispered into me

way back when

or whenever it was that you put your hand on my skin last.

September seems to long ago

already

sunshine seems so dead now.

Remember

the dark

when

everything

turned

into black and white

forties style love

last...

...ing

forever

or however long

it stayed dark outside.

I trip my broken fingers over the shadow that the lamp leaves on the wall:

(effortlessly, he pushed my still born fingers back into place

to see if we could race each other across the face

of inspiration and see who's bones could swell with the most inflammation.)

I'm filled with a kind of red sensation

that turns my fingers blue

in my (save energy; don't turn your heat on, even if your fingers start to fall off 'faze')

I can hear his laughter

like lullabies

that linger in my mind

like stormy nights

when the power goes out

and I sit alone

in the dark

to think

and whisper to you

even though

so many lines

of miles

and aisles

separate us;

we might as well be night and day

you and I

we exist in the same sky but we never touch,

my moon

will never caress your sun.

I smirk with a frown on my face

(don't get like that, baby girl)

(you know that this isn't forever baby girl

forever more

is no longer

on the floor

ready for you to grab

like

raindrops

and explore

or ignore

at your leisure.)

But this is so hard to find

and I've never felt like that

when his skin

burned me;

his third degree burns sweltering me

and the cold shower

that I stood in for hours

until I knew for sure

that my skin

was icy

enough to let him back in again.

I'm sick with sight;

I'm sick of seeing everything for what it is

could be-

maybe

we

should

see

how things

go

at the

end

when we're old

(or so much older then now)

things

and

people

change-

What about feelings?

I ask.

I'm sitting

in my coldness

on the bed

biting my nails

and

watching

the sun

end my nighttime;

how the light banishes me

(I want to lullaby myself

back into the darkness

where in such light

you cannot fight

the way

that this takes control of us.

We don't speak when the moon comes up

to

swallow

stars

and light,

take

delight

in the fact

that this is the last night that you'll see him.)

I turn the windshield wipers on

to see through the veil

of everything else.