your cologne, it smelled

a little sadder today;

please don’t go away.

Broken hearts,

broken toys.

Broken girls,

broken boys.

Broken pencils,

broken cars.

Broken glass,

broken jars.

Why is it that

so many things can be broken?

what if i had a real tattoo?!!11!!! and real muskles?!?!?!!!111!!

ahaha say hi to my spanish teacher

Unfulfillment, pen

I call, and your voice

is so gritty with sleep that

my smile stretches wide.

Excavation, Willem de Kooning (1950).

An abandoned cigarette lays,

trailing smoke into the raw night air

like a steam locomotive: stopped,

and silent in its tracks–

it leaks the wisps

of someone’s resigned soul.

I’d say this came out pretty well!