Window with a view to fill my lungs,
wet air, dry eyes, smoke and a
heart full of bourbon, sipping
out of a styrofoam cup the way you did.
Old Grandad on deck and jazz on vinyl,
humming bluegrass. Tapping foot. Cast-iron
skillet and some cheese I don’t know the name of.
Its a ritual, reserved for the unusual
moment I feel like missing you,
a maligna of the mind I treat
the way old doctors did insanity.
Summon a memory of the body,
the carnage of love, sapphire wounds;
gilded kisses lost so long ago that glass Summer.
But I don’t like the taste of whiskey any more,
my cigarettes don’t have menthol,
and lyrics sound like people I used to know
but have nothing in common with any more.
Friends lost for no particular reason
other than growing apart as people.
Strangers I shared death with.
Her kiss is a relapse, misfortune,
worsening of my worst impulses;
an awful influence full of irresistible.
Her words are drugs and drugs are a clutch,
til highs do us part and lows make us
whole again. Bags of heavy yesterdays
weigh down, and I don’t know what to do with myself.
Taken hands, hushed words, rushed stalls-
what a waste to not grab waist and do
a four letter word (love). Plans to keep
and make her a home, 5PM lockdown, rush hour,
crowded public when doubts double and my mouth
taste like cinders. Slipping into a thought of her
like a favorite pair of jeans. Snug, familiar,
warm; she fits well. Run my thumb along the holes
and coffee stains, wonder what memory or feeling
the moment will settle as, when the honeys and the moons
fade. If my name will be a sigh, wistful as a cloud,
or vague as rain humming to what the radio plays.
A feeling haunting me in the distance, a reminder
that you are in tangles and I am tangelsome.
Still I pray for relapse and disaster,
addiction and her sex to once again step into me,
far from fog and drizzled Sundays, so I might tug
on her thoughts like a shoelace. I am undone again.
Chasing the whiskey that fell into her eyes.
I wanted to do something stupid and romantic,
to take her to an art museum
and kiss her between the paintings.
To write her name beside mine in a tree bark.
But I couldn’t. Because I didn’t want to.
And still I said;
Let me secretly love you- all of you; the hard edges of your skin and personality, corners, cut sharp as diamonds where your cheek starts and tongue begins to end my existence. There’s too much spray in your hair and it frizzes against my chin, which is somewhat appropriate, considering you make my head feel like helium. Empty, but full as air, and when I’m against your lips, your voice makes a very funny sound that goes up an octave or two. Annoying as that orange I can’t stop remembering from Youtube, calming as the dumb songs you keep secretly adding to my Spotify. Send Nudes stuck on repeat, Cuban cigars and menthol cigarettes dinge-ing up the bedside counter your grandfather made just before he bit the lust and disappeared. Look at the dusk,my love. Summer is on us, and where there should be heat for touch I only feel a cool and calling tenderness. My heart beats, not for, but because of you.
Coming to terms with the temporary
is an exercise in futility. The glass can be
full or empty, but I’m smiling either way.
Composure is so often mistaken with ease,
and some might be fool enough to think
my grin is anything
grass and elm stretched tall and wide,
a grey-calm sky recovering like
someone just finished crying.
could I remember these days?
billowing clouds and swelling sighs building
in hearts and lungs. lips breathe and release
heavy waste like an exhaust pipe. I wonder,
will I remember these days?
nature makes a man feel peace, serenity,
understanding insignificance, no matter
the road ahead or trials behind him.
should I remember these days?
no, but they are necessary.