he is metaphor, he is not metaphor

there are ways to disappoint your lover
and i have listed them in other poems,
poems about misery and trees and a
billion beautiful things, especially him

like holding the dream in a frame of your mind
and holding twelve limp doves instead,
blood trickling down their variegated feathers in
pathways
pathways
pathways

to holding your breath that one day they will
find the pathway to a gapless,
read: pure,
reality:
no such things as dreams or needing
to dream.

he would never disappoint me anyways
being that he is who he is.
being that being he is who he is,
one person is only themselves, never in error.

disappointment is not the night
but the shade cast from the chest

for i do not know
what is written on my heart
or what it is capable of

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be my lotus, be my lotus

gentle and burgeoning forward
or out of the soil
growth is innocent so long as it can be.

it is a litany of whirling around
and into each other
and singing whispers in-between petals.

like doves together in the morning
we are absent minded of anything
but the pastelled and unfurled atmosphere.
lost in everything, especially the warm
exhale of breath from the south.
especially the light
invitation from a sun that will burn forever,
we imagine.

i feel nothing when i become you
but the catch of each slipping second.

another day another existential crisis

At the moment of setting,
when the sun kisses the
tops of pine trees in a cinch,

it means you could do anything.
Throw everything away and move
to a city with brighter lights.
Wear only grey T-shirts and
fall in love with strangers everyday.

Or you do nothing but
take in the ecstasy of
when the sun and the stars
take their waltzing pass.

something for the reel

there along the spruced line:
but another persistent dusk

we fell into a line while a silence,
threaded into the deceasing fog,
kept us wondering what kind of life
materializes out of such moments

a cute boy in front of me told me every night he would dream a replay of his entire life up to that moment. every night his dream was one day longer and he wondered if, in the end, he would run out of dream time or if he would kill himself. ‘really nothing is ever new’ , ‘especially when you’re never willing to live the same day over and over again every single night’, ‘i’ve never taken a photo in my entire life’.

august finds himself
beside me, then.
days later.
at a chrome bar
once, at a marble bar once.
later it was all
and always
ancient
pine and resined stain,
light whiskey and a
place of our
own.

with him he carries
the late setting sun and
a breeze sighing
the smell of leaves from
whenever. it is now,
he said. so we walked
along spotted beaches.
is there anything more
special than a gentle one
to tussle your hair.
somewhere above
gulls laugh at him,
until he whispers:
it’ll always
be you.

i’ll believe you when
time bothers itself
to stop, while i am
smiling still. when we
no longer find ancient
walls and perch all
night. only in august,
he said, when i can
brush sand from your
brows

but that’s all i
ever wanted, until
time lets me forget
to track a thing
anymore,

then everything
crashed, like waves
summing to greater
than the addition of
amplitudes, or light
mixing to something
outside the visible spectrum,
or particles in boxes
existing and not
simultaneously.

then you pulled
away

then my eyes pulled up,
and i saw the same stars
from when the earth was last here

winter lungs

in this dark and grayer world of trimmed hedges,
floating berries, black against wet wind and sopped
down grass,

birds sing less and boys wear more. boys that wear the
checked patterns in dyed wool. clouds that look like
wallpaper ash swing through like lines of logging saws.
so,

say that something else comes. magpies are drawn
to such omens, as the only sentinels left, to dine on them
and be ready for that something else which comes.

that something else, that quick at the end of a whip
of wind.

that something else, the white draw from your mouth
suspended in the light.

store up and live.

hold close and be warm.

whisper goodbye to a present sun, wait through the night
with belly deep breath, like crossing the 25 meter 89 celsius
pool, one deep breath under 1.5 meters of heavy warm water,
one long way under one constant muffle.

the draw back in will be sharp, and will taste like the time you
gasped at snow for the very first time, and frozen air
shocked your rose pink lungs, new to the world but now,
again, the world can be new.

but how wonderful

there is a lesson in everything
the stale twilight air
lost eyelashes
fogged breath while waiting for buses

especially in the morning
i can feel every
thread crossing
and each whisper
tripping over peach fuzz

these are lessons
in empti-
nothing-
ness

it is nothing
for morning light
to graze on
your stillness

but how wonderful