he says he loves the way
I do irrelevant things
and then he takes it all away
he doesn’t read me anymore
much less see me
and the windows
are finally sparkling
the forest has those paths
and you see what I see
if only in grasps of straws
for that moment
and that’s enough
for a while.

If you think there is no more
heartache inside of you
you are mistaken.

Just when I think
my life is misplaced
I start again.
I can’t speak for you
or him
or her
just for the poet
and not the muse.

I am too simple
and complex
in one sentence
imagine up close

shattered dreams
illusions
hopes.

Just know
it’s never about you
it is how the silence
between us
has become
too comfortable.

Not sure if this is much
of a poem
or thoughts
or the combination
of both
of the artist
putting on makeup
to go to dinner.