Weak Week,

Maybe it's too much to ask when I ask this little from you.

am i jealous of you
for knowing the flavor of his name on your lips?

am i envious of you
for feeling his hand on yours?

am i-perhaps-a tad disturbed
wishing i was on the recieving end

rather than watching from
the sidelines

Maybe I've gone too far by going the extra mile

do i feel left out
when the song she sings isn't a song
i heard first?

do i feel unwanted
when the jokes they tells aren't the jokes
we made together?

do i feel-perhaps-alone.
when i see you walk by, and think
i could be your friend,
if only you would let me.


You Are Not The Flavor Of The Weak.

Our Summer.

Ours was a song of summer
of sun-kissed skin and bodies
intertwined, of dappled light
and shadows on a carpet scattered with crumbs
of our love
And white sheets cast in gold
as the sun sets
In the smoggy city skyline, silhouetting
the shattered dreams and abandoned hopes
that wash up on the shorelines, here.
But under a blue sky flung forever
we lay, on sand
from shores miles away; from
all the places we'll go, it seemed
as if our summer could never end:
The perfect song, set to repeat.