12. 16. 18

(more of a story than a cohesive poem, but i haven't written a story in awhile and the temptation was overwhelming)

" her voice is the wind skating upon brushed metal
    i want to throw it up to the clouds and roll in it
    like so many brazen hundreds of birds
    littering an unbroken sky, "
he murmured bitterly, dark circles pooling around his eyes like spilled coffee.

" who are you talking about? "
i ask, heartbeat clumsily tiptoeing around the thought of rejection.

" you, "
he says, and the world trips over a comma and  thunders to a stop
and the sun in my heart seems to swell to completion
burning, burning with unfortunate truth

" i'm dead, loverboy, "
you whisper, but this time it is not your voice,
but the droning of an alarm clock