Candle wax pressed with fingerprints.

The thumb flicking alight a cigarette

marks a moment for making out

the little letters writ under tongues.

Bitter news, summer has come again

to run the very moons’ mascara.

Sleepless nights the fault

of a space left blank,

soon to swirl with maggots.

White washed walls seem to me,

as corpses.

Mind your stare not linger long in mourning,

for once it warms it is sure to soften

the sound of the sliding door,

which once rang out as a starting gun

is now a mouthful better swallowed.

I don’t want to write the kind of poetry where someone could say “oh this must be about this instance and relationship in the author’s life.” For one, I hope no one will know that much about me. Granted there is a time and place for pointed poems about someone’s specific circumstance, but I have always appreciated the ones you can fit your self into. Who care’s what the author was thinking, what is the reader feeling?

I’ve been waiting to use the moons mascara line for a while. You might see it again sometime.