sometimes

sometimes when the wind blows
just right
through a crack in the attic
and the air shifts
the yellowed pages
of a long forgotten story

the light is all angles
catching dust in its beams
making it sparkle

it's then
and only then
that I miss you

The Artist

Tell me about your cigarettes
and insomnia
your coffee
and depression

how carefully you construct
your shrouds and cloaks and mirrors
the sparkle of charisma
the allure of your self-inflicted loneliness

I was never close enough
to see underneath

Was it love?
No, it was drama
a Shakespeare play
with romance and intrigue,
the comfort of a tragedy

How you fear
what you'd be
without your suffering and
mystery

I promise you this
if you were brave enough
to stretch open
cracks in the concrete of your walls
the light that comes in
is sweeter than the safety
of being alone

*to all tragic poets, and especially the one within myself*