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the gameWe have loved each otherand lost. You took the riskand won. I know you have loved me becauseyou trusted me to understand. I lovethe things you love and your beautiful life,bursting into blossom.
milesI buy a necklace I will wear when you step off the plane,instead of a sign you will see a bird, wings folded like the inkon your legs,you step off the plane and run your fingers against theskin-warmed metal, waiting for usto take flight.
the surfaceSkipping stones is the same as walking on water,except she wants to sinka little bitsometimes.Skim the seaweed,she wants to walk both worlds, the pressureenfolding her head,her eardrums silenced, no lapping waves orshrieking birds, she wants to follow the stones,tumbling into the darkwithout coming upfor breath.
truth of itThe phone rang and rang,I held my bathrobe closed, chased down the angry words youscreamed and locked them in the bathroom,stuffing a towel under the door -I hear them pacing.The snow is muffling the night, I lightthirteen candles on the three windowsills(yes, one has an extra)I light the nighton fire.Which comes first?The idea or the words?I write down "beginning" erase, "st
"backspace, trip waaaaaaaaaitfor autosave, read a poem,listen to the wordsgun and fierce,contemplating the shrunken sleeves of mypink bathrobe, not as nice as hers, I'm sure,but it does the trick -and we're back,stupid,my heel itchesandI remember what I said todayabout losing my patienceand how he told you he lovedmy painting, though he never looked when I wasin the room.
Long ShadowsA dream caresses the curve of my cheek,slows the clock, the hum of a song to rock youback to sleep,a tree grows up the plane of the wall, leavesunder leaves,always on the edge of flowersburst from buds, furled along themselves,thunder-scented fury and the rustle ofanswers, murmured dark and untamed.
to my broken-hearted loverI wish you would call me in the early-morning again,without your voice in my ear or on my phone I am unsettled,listening to saved messages of you, sweetly reading poemsI once woke up to, you were my pelican, my bird of light,and I don't need you to be a rock or to save me as I fumble to lighta cigarette, I need to hear you breathe, to tell me about the pain,even if I cannot take it away and we are always here,curled into commas on bedsa world apart.
the mirageThey ask you to explain what that song meantto you, to clarify a joke or a poemor the sound of laughter at recess, the leavescrumpled into the gutter on a clear October night,tell a stranger the way the moon called to you, orangeand heavy with secrets deeper than the blood that connects us,there must be answers like numbers tallied up,pros and cons in a tiny notebook,why you are even showing up when you have an emotionaldeficit, can only talk with your hands,the way you can reach out for somethingthat is not there.
writing poetry with closed eyeIf I touch the keys lightly, sometimeswords come out, poems,unstructured, undonetrusting fingers to get it right,left side, right side, the deepening duskwhispering, I hold the thoughtlike butterflies on the fennel,wings furled gently.
On the Heart of ThingsThese things that used to be enough,are not.Sleep is not sleep when you're awareof the space between inhale and exhale.Medicated properly and yeta zombie, between breaths.There are no heroes here, no answers, no deep thoughts,inhale, exhale.Only a leg-aching stasis as the chest rises ever so softly. Did it rise?Between breaths, the song on repeat unable to lull you closer to sleep,inhale, exhale. Not awake enough to open your eyes, fingers restless on the keys,laptops must have been invented for insomniacs, inhale, exhale.Journalism done by the near-dead,blogging for vampires,inhale, exhale. Trapped,between breaths.