Trois

Her honey-dipped
lips
whisper triptych kisses

Silent Synapses

A backwards-facing sun
drains shadows from
shapeless spines

silent synapses
slip from tongues
licking at synonyms

for how we feel

running out
of adjectives
& sensation

for that matter

deafened by the doubts
inside my head
wielding pitchforked red pens

spineless shapes
splay shadows upon
a backwards-setting sun

Wake up shaking
from a restless life,
just walk around numb

searching for a current,
to be swept away,
a way to weigh this anchor

from my chest

Watching from the side of the stage
I am not one of the cool kids

I am going through life, a door off its hinges

Playing Hangman
on a napkin noose;
can’t even spell defeat