Contributor: Ashley E. Cox

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I suppose you don't know
That I can still see you
I remember blood in my veins
The bliss of a ripe green bruise

I am vapor but I confess
Watching your fingers
Twirl blades of grass
Weighs down my phantom chest

I’m beside your slight bones
When you toss in your sleep
If I had limbs I would brush
Wet hair stuck on your cheeks

Watching you write
Your hand carves with a pen
Oh, to be the paper
Once more feeling your skin

I wait for each sunrise
For your shutters to crack
Your eyes begging the sky
To let me come back

You looked heavenly in white
I tried to count each snow
I hear the birds sing
Watching your stomach grow

What are you dreaming of
When you cry out at night?
Damn the human next to you
He’s not holding you right

Are those lines of silver
Spreading through your hair?
What are you looking at
Alone in your chair?

Rocking by the window
Your eyes dripping with streams
Clenching a photo of me
Around the age of sixteen


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Ashley E. Cox is a writer from Denver, Colorado, currently residing in Los Angeles, California. She began writing poetry at the age of eight; twenty years later she learned how to turn her poetry into lyrics. In 2014, she spent time writing with musicians and is currently composing her first book.