apart

with eyes that tell how long we've been gone,
and hands that stick and skim,
we hold on to these heartstrings,
while tangled up, limb to limb.

Unfinished- 10/30/11

in progress

sometimes i just think of little vignettes, and I have no idea where the poem is supposed to go. I thought I would list them here in case I am inspired once more.

Or maybe, three lines makes a poem? Probably not though.

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the words won't come out
my throat, rough and raw,
from breathing through an open mouth