van Gogh

he freed his fingers from my hand

to paint his own van Gogh

on the side of another square

he felt was a better fit.



with a carnival balloon in hand

and paper banjos playing softly beside the river

he walked home,

pausing only for a moment

to released the fictional helium hope

of ever finding his own huckleberry …



the pile of faded out t-shirts

that sit silent in the corner of an empty room

still have the scented memories 

of his wasted kisses, lost loves,

and the absent knowing

of how to feel something for someone.




a soul torn in half

both cold and broken

takes pictures in the dark

of yesterday’s closing door.





enduring the season

where wine numbs the hurt,

his feet push down old memories of missed loves

deep into the coarse shelled sand

where tides quickly wash away …

another year passed alone.




in the basement of his soul,

concealed scars reached up to

turn off the light to his heart.



carved away by a river of pain,

the worn and jagged edges of his heart

 now expose the forgotten sedimentary layer

of how to love.




surrounded by caffeine and smoke,

he painted his portrait 

in the misty colors of his personal mythology

to obscure the bruises and scars

only visible to him.




 thickly layered and fragile

he sat in his safe space

framed by the things he’d become.

jealous for never taking chances

or challenging his truths

made of glue and antiseptic.