[a brief history of falling]

one six two seven.
i will never forget those numbers.
and the meaning they held
the way i walked down corridors
and painted pictures in my head of the what if.s
that circled around like literary tornados.
or the way i sat in that room.
waiting.

the way i became someone else's.


and the memories. they seem to be
distant films. in foreign language.
all i see are actions.
body language when my fingers ran-
down your back.
eyes- god those eyes.
when words
slipped between lips/ saying so much in three words.
and we understood where cliches came from.
because you. could always speak
my favorite colors-
the way you used to paint me
on your paper heart
with words
that used to break me- now
I read them like silent film

because breaking should be done in silence.
that is how i explain it to myself- when i fall apart in letters
that make up these poems of self pity.

so i feed myself these lines
and pretend that today- it's a chance
to change.
but I still lie to them
almost as much as I lie to myself
and I drink.

and
between
the ice in my glass
and the taste on my lips.
I am just trying to hide the taste
of you.

all over again.