The air smells of honeysuckle,
it's almost too sweet to breathe...

All of these poems
beneath my skin...

There's this tenderness
inside my chest...

So you despise the sky
for proving the weatherman lies...

I know it's getting late,
but I have no kisses to swallow...

You know the heart doesn't really break
our fist-sized vessels...

High speed connections
and neon lights...

I told him, dreaming is good
it spits stardust on our despondency...

There is this whir fluttering the air
with its strange tongue...

I've been drab
and wordy...

In love, we wittingly expect the unexpected
so when that big red smear...

Sometimes I wish my heart
weren't a field of dandelions...