I love you.
I look into your eyes and see the distance between us in your beautiful brown eyes.
I tell you "I love you."
And you say, "I love you too."
I ask you, "Do you want to spend the rest the rest of life with me."
You reply, "Yes you're the perfect guy for me, but I have feeling for a few other too."
I say without hesitation, "who cares I'm your boyfriend and those guys aren't its normal to feel this right?"
I wait, hoping for that day to never come.
The day when I have to say it.
F%@# you, you stupid B#$%@.
Goodbye.
Good riddance.
Sayonara.
Adios.
Aloha.
But still I know it's going to happen.
my organs and limbs moan
their agony of preservation
while my bones lie in wait
longing for a barrow to rest in
a game is being played
conflicts of interests being made
when the game ends and all is done
there is comfort in knowing
the bones will have won
it was like seeing things through blurred glass
shapes
faces
edges
all undefined
all things i could not touch
it was like jumping into an unending chasm
surrounded by water yet feeling so infuriatingly dry
it was like stumbling down empty streets
with no cushioning grass to land on
it was like a dream
filled with all the stars and moons of the cosmos
yet the blankness of an empty canvas all at once
all i could do was
want
want
and as the star died
the moon watched on from afar, as it always did
the moon reflected the suns rays, as it always did
and as the star died
the void was splattered with colour, as it always was
the void was a silently patient witness, as it always was
and as the star died
the moon wished it could meet it's end
an end as colourful, as silent, as beautiful
the moon wished it could meet it's end
an end that was it's own yet similar to the stars
an end that resembled others of it's kind but an end that was wholly its own
an end with it's own colour, it's own debris, it's own silence, it's own beauty
and as the star died
the moon mourned
every night i see these sunsets change
and yet the rooftops that line them forever stay the same
i always seem to age slower than these trees
throwing leaves onto forever decaying concrete
they tell me they do not care if i am guilty
nor if i am not
if i could just one dream
i'd scream at them that i care
i'd scream at them until my voice ran bare
every night i'd scream
every night with every sunset
but with each scream comes it's absence
and with each sunset lies the same rooftops
you crave affection like it's something to be devoured
like it's something to be ravished
like it's something to be torn to shreds in a single sitting
you crave
until it burns up your throat
it burns and burns
until you do not recognise your voice
you speak and speak and speak
hoping that flame can extinguish
you crave affection like it's something to be devoured
yet you wouldn't recognise affection if you were served it on a silver platter
i forgot the reasons
but i loved you once
i had pictures, didn't i?
i had messages, didn't i?
i forgot the reasons
but you loved me once
you gave me moments, didn't you?
you gave me things to forget, didn't you?
i loved all the things you gave me
i loved all the motions you gave me
i loved all the poetry we had spun on endless nights
but i forgot the reasons
i forgot what those pictures meant
what those messages read
what those stories told
what those moments meant
A cold chilling wind blows
it seeps
deep,
deep into my bones.
A ripple of cold.
My knees buckle.
GRAVITY takes a hold.
This chilling wind blows
that vanquishes souls.
Spreads like poison.
Latching on, not letting go.
Where have your fires gone?
In what place are they stored?
This numbness is unbearable
and so is this cold
As I wait by the baggage carousel,
a man in a tight shell necklace
paces back and forth
looking somehow a little odd.
I quickly scan for my bag,
then return my gaze to the room.
Two women and a white-haired man
approach the necklace guy.
“I need to be back by 7:50,” he says
to their dinner invitation, I suppose.
As I turn toward the carousel again,
a wild shriek rises behind me.
The man with the shell necklace
is holding a phone to his ear,
screaming “My God! No! No!”
The other three huddle around,
So often on the steps or streets
we spoke: How is his wife? His child
with measles, or the price of bread.
They would help me, I thought,
if I were in need, and I, them.
But at my door that morning,
softly saying they knew,
and those children still asleep:
so frightened, so small,
by now their parents–
well, who can imagine,
and who wants to believe–? The gun
I’d kept in the cupboard close, in case.
What else could I have done?
My father was an autumn tree,
all his colors gone to ground.
My sister and I made a house of leaves.
My father was a maple tree
no small girl could climb.
My sister and I learned to let go.
My father was a fire of leaves.
The dark scent of smoke
lingers still, in our winter houses.
One thousand pieces.
My mother works section by section:
the white cat’s paws
the green butterfly,
the day her youngest daughter was born.
My brother looks at each piece in turn.
He finds its twin in the picture on the box.
He places it exactly where it belongs.
And his twin sister,
where does
she go?
She is here, now, still and squeezed dry,
close to completion.
She smiles from far away when someone speaks.
My middle sister works the borders:
Make the frame; the rest will fit in.