i always find myself forgetting
the shape of his love.
like when i’m lost
in the constant passing by.
so i’ve pushed back on these
i’ve been pulling them back, to
hear the sound inside
life as it
would have been.
and its nothing but the
and there are other deadly things whispered
in the still of late and early night.
such as these sermons that prattle
on like pebbles down a rocky fall,
so i etched into the
yet untouched cavern of
my skull: a reminder.
i am not a pretold story
i am not that which could be measured
not the footprints or the echos
or the faint chalk dust outline
you traced in my sheets
i am not something which is accounted.
this hour will change, and
even the color will fade
as light waves stretch and
we forget to count the seconds.
the I is the woven thread,
dye me now
and count my bones.
we can be everything the moment
says we should be
how long is the ringing
how long the hour
when carpet threads finally unwind?
there is interest in acquaintance
like how will i pair my silence
or the length of his pause
with the second frozen by his eye?
who is here who can be witness?
who is here who
can let these things fall away?
who is here who can tell me
where to pry open the etched
out dovetail joining
and see how the sun rises anyways?
i can bring back yesterday
in a breath of august wind,
i leave with my dreams
and now, rebuild myself with them.
like tightening the screw on
millions of old joints.
i am only loosed laced together.
every cigarette tastes old now,
and even the trees are sighing now.
light and space in the head rush
and i only rush
to feel earth again.
even the moon is tired now.
even the fall will fall now. for,
i reside only in my dreams
fingers and calloused eyes.
riding a slow escalator within the
smells of rubbed out grease
and it is clean, still,
in acidic fluorescent lights
tiles of primary
red blues and greens
no one ever taught me that life would be so gentle when it became so dark and cold and we all huddle away from one another, pilots in our brains navigating our way but first
letting this shared space be a respite from what the shared space is.
i can remember trails in the deciduous woods like suggestions of erased lines
invisible shadows that suggested use and love
i can feel such trails now, though tiles hide them underneath constructed surface and sheen.
there are three thousand ways
to give it all away, but
i stopped writing.
who are words for anyways
just the ghosts we’re leaving behind
here is one:
shadows played out between
fading away fluorescent lights.
or were they neon at times.
it was the first time in my life
i ever thought i was brave.
here is another:
falling in love with winter frost
to belly up the fact that
i can never fall in love at all.
ghosts are only stories.
or, shadows in the back of the cave.
there are three thousand stories
to wrap yourself up in, but
you stopped reading.
i am certain her black and beaded eye
knows nothing of the world
beyond these fading
knows nothing of the fields her wide
and folded wings will learn,
knows nothing of the seas and
hills and mountains,
knows nothing of the deserts to cross,
nothing of the sleek grey sculpture her DNA
has yet to mold,
only to yelp now above the static song.