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out in the park we watch the sunset, talking on a rusty swing set.

the night, though clear, shall frown, and the stars shall not look down.

our father who art in heaven. our father who art buried in the yard.

of two lovers turning from sad people into poets filled with sonnets they never knew they had in them.

don't dare regret anything. remember what you're here for.

there wasn't much left, but it felt like him; wild and scared. it was too much to bear.

the day after he first spoke to julian fromme, he took his journal out of the locked paint box he kept under his bed and opened it to a fresh white page.

but you are an artist. and your mind doesn't work the way you want it to.

you're dancing; you're neck to neck or cheek to cheek.

it's almost a helpless stare, like he has his own personal helios in the palms of his hands.

i turned off the headlights of my looking and let the animal get away.

sitting in the back seat, driving so fast, hands out the window. never going back.

your name, like a song i sing to myself.

it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance.

and when darkness lifts and the room is bright, i'll still be by your side.

you must strive to find your own voice. because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it all.

here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed; crossed out.

i'm giving my all for a remedy. grant myself serenity.

here was the truth: it was the happiest they had ever been. he would never say that to himself afterward, but he always knew.

a dull throb in his ribs when they left one another all that time ago, now aching with too much left undone, unsaid.