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The Last Time I saw you,
you were down in the dirt,
[literally] on hands and knees,
looking for the bit of magic
your father had promised was toiling
just underneath the surface.

You feel it, you whispered in
a cotton hush like the vibrancy
of your voice would intimidate the
dreams you scraped at beneath the
faultlines. Daddy never told a lie
[excluding the usual good things
come to those who wait, and 'tis better
to have loved and lost, and every end
is a new beginning]. You feel it,
you whispered, trembling at the hands
the same way you did for the Pills
that couldn't quite fix the Problem.

.

I never really understood all the ways
you crumbled. Ours was only
a simple appreciation, the kind
you see in dog-eared romance novels
and time-old photographs but never
real living people. And The Night

you swore to me you loved everyone
in the world, imperfections and
jaded natures and judging eyes and all,
for the simple fact they were alive,
I called you crazy. You said
they were impossible examples of
what happens when fate and fortune
and other untouchable things come together.
I told you no, things are sometimes just
what they are and you asked, then how
could I ever love me?

I didn't question it when you woke
up crying, asking who could
catch the pieces of falling stars

.

You are a little child, hiding
under the bed with your monsters
because you realize fear is merely
a concept and reality is the only thing
that ties you to consciousness, like a firm hand
pressing your head underwater until
you forget what it is to breathe.

You are a dreamergirl, singly
defined, stars stapled in and on
your brittle bones, wishes staining
your breath like some expired alcohol;

lives originating and dying
in your universe eyes. The Last Time
I saw you, you said I just need you
to believe in me before turning and

running away.