I love someone:
His curled yellow pages, his
Twisted edges molding into
Blinding white sheets behind uneven print.
A shoebox, a toothbrush, a jar,
The smell of a letter,
My relentless adhesive.
When the title fades the words lose meaning the syntax fails.
Bury the pages in the dirt
watch something grow from your story.
Unfurl the petals of your diction,
preserve them in a dictionary,
weave them between your fingers
stitch them into your palms.
Crumbling sheets and misplaced feathers that lie
Delicately on the transparent skin
Of two lovers whom are nestled within
A makeshift home. As fleeting as a sigh
Of resigned hope. A limited supply
Scorns at the times that would’ve, could’ve been.
Yet one of transience is not without weight,
And hope need not be crushed down to the floor.
A temporal sweetness does still satiate
The dullness of a tongue that has once more
Tasted the touch of love’s open gate,
So clear the anguish is worth striving for.
Wrapping myself in petals of familiarity,
Every morning they bloom into
Grotesque images of people, places, objects,
Leafy sepals of sameness.
Empty empty vacuous flower bud.
Senseless clambering for water,
For a moving constant, a flowing necessitation.
Nourish me with the lick of your honeyed tenderness.
Sick of monotony,
But wanting what once was.
C’est La Vie,
Lacking in you.
How much can you miss a person before seeing them doesn’t make it worth it? Are you allowed to hurt this much – is the next meeting going to justify the pain you feel now? I can’t tell if, as the number gets smaller and fewer hours separate our meeting, it gets any easier. The weight of expectation is pricking holes down my arteries and it’s getting harder to breathe. If I see you and you can’t fix me, I’m going to fall apart.
I’ve weaved myself into a trap of cliched writing. The stereotypical debate is as follows: Is it easier to let go or to hold on. And I can’t let go – I don’t want to. But this pent up frustration and anger, like a wasp stinging me every time some semblance of hope crops up on the horizon; I’m not sure how long more I can take.
So I grip onto the silken thread you’ve left for me to hold onto. They say a spider’s web is stronger than you could ever expect from something so delicate you know? I’ll drag myself up, time and time again, a divide cracking me in half and I’m not sure if it’s physical or my own shortcomings.
Your happiness wraps me up like a warm bath that keeps getting hotter, searing my skin and I’m burnt. Charcoal flakes off me and in the morning I’m new for an imaginary instance.
You’re spewing vulgarity,
And I wish I could take your words and throw them at him.
Cunt, you’re up in smoke.
Burn holes in the sweater I’ve forgotten the smell of
And taint it with grassy forgetfulness.
Hazy, hazy child,
It’s like he runs a mile before realising it’s in a mirror.
Turn around, my love, before it’s too late,
Thread a trail of apologies behind you
And cling to the hope I’ll trip.
Know I’ll trip. Know I’ll never toss words at you,
I’ll cut you, but I’ll never salt your wounds,
And you’ll never learn.
I’m listening to her speak,
And I wish I could turn on you.
Violate you with how I’m feeling.
Cloying, sweet messages of vapid emotion.
Without you, I’m seeing bones.
A skeleton wrought with potential.