Way on to weigh on, I’ve
lost and been loved. My God,
have I lost and loved. Another
dream made night, no
body, no meaning, no feeling
I dream friendly faces, glowing,
apartments and baby showers.
Nightmares. Shapes and ghost
haunting so I hunt shadows,
searching, boxing, a return to self.
I command this stasis
I demand myself.
I cry. Dried tears & mom’s nail polish
thick on the counter. Red, like
blood. Death. Complaints on
color, only because I know she
Being yourself has the consequence of there being no excuse.
I’ve torn up a hundred love letters I’ve written for you,
because not one was enough. I’ve called you beautiful,
fair and gorgeous- even compared you
to the moon, but she blushed behind a cloud
because you thought I called you pale.
Name you brilliant, but who isn’t?
Oh-I’m-Not-That-Smart. You are impossible,
like complimenting breathing. Even if I did it well…who cares?
Anyone else can do it,.Then one day I decided not to, and I’m glad I did.
It was the day I decided to live and grow beside you instead.
Today is not a day for words:
they evaporated when the sun rose,
violet pink and red, this rose sun,
melting the day before.
They’ve lost all meaning, these words,
these words I loved the day before,
beating page thumping at my fingertips,
pulsing hymns of hims and hers and theys
and souls and images. Now all I see are shapes,
carved out silhouettes of what they meant
empty as a shadow. Meaningless-pointless-shallow
I’d rather sit outside bare in the cold
chilled bones from sitting too long on steppes
of stones, feeling drops of rain dampen my cigarettes,
than sit at home writhing in papercuts,
The day before words were so much more,
but not today, because
today is not a day for words.
2AM again, a restless dream, undressing under twilight
but somebody has to keep the moon company.
Yes, yes, you said. Not yet, no, not yet.
I call you Gaia and kiss the sands,
jump and dance and make a mess,
and I laugh, you laugh, we laugh;
the moonlight kisses us.
If only I could love you properly-
my fingers ready, edging, always aching
for yours. So young, and bold, and hairy.
No, no, you said. No, not yet, not yet.
You call me worrier, kiss my hands,
jump and dance and make the bed,
and I laugh, I laugh, I laugh;
the sunlight kisses us.
But my hands start thinning.