there is twilight in his breathing.
legs like spiders.
eyes of sinking ships,
holding onto the edge with shaking fingertips.
is the water cold?
cold enough to stop air from flowing to his lungs?
auburn hair and a heart too big.
a pen always enclosed in a thoughtful fist.
words spill out one by one,
haunted by ghost nouns and verbs gone wrong.
the thoughts roam from behind his eyes,
make their way down to his spine.
there they hang with poems unread,
while monsters and verses stay trapped in his head.
an empty house can say a lot
of harder times and connections lost.
there he strums a guitar alone,
thinking of the girl he calls his home.
where coffee is brewing,
and they sleep in the same bed.
where together they fight the monsters,
that dwell in their heads.