All ready to
But you can never reach the
Your soul is
You are an
Chained to the
is this what nostalgia taste like?i'm reminded of things i'd rather forget,
i have memories of words that were never said.
each time i look in a mirror
i see your face over my shoulder, studying the lines forming on my face.
i'm growing old, older than i should be;
middle-aged, but drowning in high school.
i think i used to know where i'm going,
but now my best guess is the grave;
i think i died when i met you,
but that's okay with me, i was dying anyway.
i'd haunt you if you'd like.my hands are paralyzed and you're waiting for me to touch your face,
but that doesn't really matter because i'd rather touch your soul
and if you close your eyes long enough i'll read you poetry as we lay atop the monkeybars
in this old and rusted park
you can pretend to know the constellations and point them out to me and i'll tell you they're all beautiful, but nothing compared to you
if i'm lucky you'll blush and laugh at me,
tell me i say the dumbest things but deep down it'll register in your soul just how much i love you
and i know they say you can only save yourself, but darling i swear if you'll just have the slightest bit of faith i'll save the fuck out of you or i'll destroy myself trying,
because i honestly can't think of any other purpose for my life
or what smidge of it i've been able to hold on to.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desks
i don't think they liked the language i used
when i wrote how my heart was beating
like headboards against the walls of people fucking
at 3 am to the sounds of joy division
whenever you read me paintings at dawn.
they were going to send me to the counselor,
but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,
so they just let me go.
but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,
i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roof
and laughing when we argue about rimbaud
and sighing as we start to die.
let's lay down and watch the sky fall.i've taken on the habit of latching my watch
on the sixth-to-last notch so that it's too loose for my wrist
and every time i reach up to tame your mound of auburn hair behind your ear
time slips away from me
and we can entangle ourselves in the possibility of forever in it's absence.
lush.you're all the "him, he, his"
in every poem i write.
every star i watch,
especially the ones i wish upon as they fall,
holds your somber reflection.
you're every cube of ice wrapped up in a mint green cloth
you held against my shoulder
on the spot where some random face pushed me against the lockers.
every time it rains
i swear a smidge of your soul is falling from the sky,
maybe that's why i love to run outside with wheelbarrows of buckets
to catch and hold each drop.
sometimes it snows in this dreadful southern wasteland.
the earth is covered in specks of your grated skin;
ivory crystal so cold my hand goes numb,
so i can't feel the electric shocks from a handful of embracing midnight movie marathons
of low-budget dramas that we always just ended up acting out ourselves;
we never had any money to spend on tickets to the real movies,
we poured all our cash and coins into the old register at that used bookshop.
need i say that you were every line i read,
every syllable stained onto tho
moths swarmed into our throats.we danced in that pumpkin patch just off of highway 9
at 2 a.m.
he howled up at the distant moon,
who stared down at us in that dumbfounded gaze
as it rested lorn-fully against the sky.
somewhere in town kids were getting ready to go to the houses of strangers
their parents have known for years
and ask for candy and make-uped smiles.
no one cared about the two dead boys wading through a knee-high sea of bright orange pumpkins;
no one gives a damn what ghosts do in october,
as long as they're not haunting them.
i choked on dandelion dust clotted to my wrists.i remember years ago,
back when i was six-years-old,
my mother called a plumber
and cursed in her sunday best
when the line went dead.
i couldn't see past the counter,
so i laid face-first against the floor
and waited for the pipes to unclog
so my parents could recommence
pouring my childhood
down the drain.
the willows no longer weep for us, isn't that sad?hospital walls
aren't very thick
and so every night i could hear you sleeping
soundly in the room next to mine.
i wasn't trying to kill myself,
not that time,
i just wanted to make myself fall asleep
so i could find you in our dreams.
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
short history of the universe(what it's like is anne sexton quoting van gogh about sometimes having a terrible need for religion)
A lake slams into a bus and a city is unborn.
Enter an ocean of fog and then desert after desert stacked above the hills.
Then you get drunk as fuck near the tumbling skyline,
and this god damned room burns like prayer in your chest.
Then many missing scientists reappear in your brittle beach,
and your satellites in relapse all bending,
and what it's like is some kind of disaster, honestly;
the arms and the aerosol and the linen and the light.
And the rumble forwarding the sovereign wreck saying
survive yourself like you've survived me;
saying the game-changing theory was that everything is always moving,
and same for the carousal shadow bleeding through the mountain in your dream,
same for your silence and the sudden red rain of witnesses.
And then what unconquerable continents,
what strange forecast occupied via gate via wind and wave-
multitudes of sick yellow branch
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r