Saturday, December 10, 2011



A dark jungle, 
looking like a dark jungle,
is where I am never quite myself.
I don't want to trip 
over its silence.

I don’t want a life apart 
from the pain I conceal 
from portions of myself,
from your voice crying 
to someone else 
come play in the rain, love.
This is not the same summer rain.

Our first season of separation
I counted dead roses 
in the back yard.
I didn't write our names on the mailbox.
You couldn't listen to my dreams.
I couldn't question yours.

The scars are there. 
I don’t know how many years I spent 
trying to forget, afraid of how many years 
I spend trying to remember.

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