windblown & westbound

your crystalline lips haunt this room,
smeared red onto your pillow,
and a pout over my full name,
on the first page,
and the last page,
of the diary i photocopied,
when you kept bar, that summer,
bookends, one for the start,
and one for the tearfalls,
raindrops over fountain pens,
mascara smeared words,
surrounded by rouge infautation,
within withered cardboard walls.

crescendo

you were born 4 months late,
or me 6 months too early,
stuck on allegro and lento,
the horns are out of time,
& the strings a cacophony,
of snapping bows,
& dimmer glows,
every night your kisses missed.