nothing really stirs me anymore,
not since elliott died.

but god she tried, with those loud disgusting sobs but i just sat there quietly carving a triangle into my ankle.

"why a triangle?"
"they always seem to find me, one way or another."

because what is beauty without geometry,
what is love without pythagoreas,
what is poetry without
old souls like ourselves
casting wet salt underfoot
and into the veins of our sullen disciples?
it.s nothing, i swear to you,
but three points on a plane
physics in a vacuum,
anatomy of the insane and

i am closing my eyes for the second coming
of winter.s aching wrists;
i only pretend to play guitar
i only play the black keys on the piano
because fate is not a diagram
&i am not a fraction, just
a drunk girl
singing &
making lists.

june through august was your time to cry,
and august through december was his testing trial
but from new year's day to october twenty-first
i sucked on my pain and relished in hurt
and look at me,
i.m fine.
i only cry over what i remember, anyway.