plan b

old shadows 

that hover over the rocks and stones

in front of him

lead him with the wicked echos of regret

that his life had only become

his plan b.


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.



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.




in the basement of his soul,

concealed scars reached up to

turn off the light to his heart.