But take this:
Erase everything you know about me
(Hunched over your sad-soaked sheets
Liquored, pulling syllables out of teeth)
Remember windier times
(Tired feet and broken glasses
German maps and Roman ashes)
Let the sun blind you
from my grace that falls
like temperatures on the east
hitting newer depths at
every hour of darkness
(You are mistaken, my dear)
Please,
Allow my past to reclaim you
from our calloused hands
tied up above our heads
too tall for us to see
that you have erased everything you knew about me
swiftly done, overrun, and freed.
Searching for a storm
in reflections of raindrops
I sit by your placid pond
And you, as a lifeboat
when all I want is to drown
Find me in the produce aisle
shivering through the seasonal fruits
of past decisions-
bagging my lonely habit
of never remembering
what color avocados are when they’re ripe
Separated by
the miles of others’ skin
Far; you hold me still
A moment- or two-
banking on your willingness
-if any-
not to cry.
Say tears are lies
leaving the body
less like weakness
and more like the neverending
urge to take showers in the sea
Seaside; Sipping tea on the
corners of the best conversation
you have ever had.
There, this match once burned
to light dull words, heat cold beds
Here, burning bridges
Despite periods.
You continue to fill all of
(my parentheses)
This is my defense
Against cold feet and raw thumbs
twiddled to the bone of idle fingers
and a whirling mind
that seems to spin to the rhythm
of your reply,
which is staccato and frigid
like the space after my ankles
because I don’t believe in socks.
But I do believe in sweaters
ones that itch and chafe
against skin, against flesh
against comfort-
Whispering that, in comfort,
is nothing.
But in the scratch of heavy wool,
lies the reminder of silk.
Blurry silhouettes
You and I; Portraits drawn in
Disappearing ink
There’s a space in between my fingers
where your hand ought to be
or not ought to be
(If I’m being realistic)
You see, these invisible strings
are difficult to cut
when they aren’t tied around your waist
but lie flat on the floor
where you once stood
While the other ends cut the circulation
off my pinky finger
where one too many pinky promises
have robbed my other fingers
of moral obligation
especially, in particular,
the one in the middle
who seems to show up
a lot lately.
