Paper Valentine

He wants to take the word “Love” and
crumple it up like a paper Valentine;
Stuff it into his mouth,
Grind it down,
Swallow it clean.

He wants to take the gaudy pieces
Of candy and crush them under
The heel of his boot
And then snort the dust
If only to feel the burn
Of something that isn’t
Heartbreak.

He wants to smash the memories
Like a broken coffee pot on a lazy
Sunday morning and then crunch
The glass into his hands,
Across his palms, and smear
The saccharine
Blood across his face like
A savage preparing for war.

But he does none of this. He
Crumbles like stale cake and
Waits for someone to move him
and his cracked frosting heart
With the rest of the rotting refuse.

Drowsy Bifurcation

She’s sunshine in the form of dark
edges and half-nibbled jars of strawberry
frosting sweet enough to make you
sick just by looking at it. You touch her
charcoal-smudged cheek and drag fingers

down along the distant column of her neck,
smearing dark lines that steep like
rooibos tea a little on the burnt side—
always a little on the burnt side.

You keep a messy room but a tidy
heart, books scattered but the walls
scrubbed clean of dirt until your
nails bleed from the hydrogen peroxide,
a parochial washing of your whimsy
because you think maybe— maybe—
it’s just something your soul needs.

The knot of time remains firm around
the hollow of your throat and she—
a thin dash of burnable sunlight trickling
into your atmosphere— and she— the
dark seductive curve of a calligraphy

pen at an errant hour of the night—
and she slackens the rope and sends
you on your way, stumbling, jealously
reverent, palms bent hopelessly
towards the sky— searching.