Clouds

image

Photo Credit: Patience

I found you
under skies
holding piles of clouds
from blue fingertips.
Your body
stretched out
against gray smears
of weather
waiting for release,
and I watched you
turn inside out
from the madness trapped
in the heavens.
Each breath
left you starving,
each shift forced your hand.
And we barrel rolled
through purgatory,
stamping out
the flames
with our hearts.

Strange

It’s strange what we remember.

Like that dinner we had
at Ruby Tuesday’s–
chicken Caesar salads
and hamburgers
in a chain restaurant
I had never heard of.
Now it has this glow
when I hear a commercial
for this place I went once
on a night in the ancient past
where you took me places
where waiters smiled
and snapped our photo.
A memory of an ordinary night
where I felt anything but ordinary.
And you probably don’t remember it.
Or that drive on the coast
or me taking your photo
as you pumped gas,
something that doesn’t happen
in Oregon.

It’s odd what we remember. 

Like the light casting shadows
on your cheek
as I told you I loved you.
I remember that Al Green song
and an old 90s R&B ballad
that I’ll never stop listening to.

It’s funny what we remember.

You imagine that night
I first took you home with me,
lying together
until the morning of your last day.
I still see you walking away
and the blue jacket you wore.

We remember
but we never see
the same moment.

We remember
but differently.

It’s so strange.

Forgetfulness

I picture this
forgetfulness
washing over you
like a cool fog,
clouding your mind,
capturing your focus.
Day to day
magnified
into more real
than memory,
and I see your eyes
wander,
glazed with the idea
that this is it.
But every once in awhile,
enough alcohol
or sadness
or boredom
clears the haze
and you can see me again,
there in the chair,
smiling,
taking your picture.
And I laugh with you
til morning,
covering your tears
with smiles.

Symmetry

You saved me
when I thought no one could,
and I will never love anyone
the way I love you.
Still,
you haunt me
and I dream without answer
because your fingers shake
at believing.
In me.
In us.
In yourself.
Don’t you know that
at your darkest,
you are
still loved,
still magical,
still mine?
Even at your darkest,
I can
still see
your light.
Come to me
with your broken,
your weary,
your loss.
Let me sew together
the pieces you carry
and hold all the sorrow
that you bear.
We were built
to wear this loss,
this agony,
but we were also created
with hands that fit
and souls that play harmonies
in intricate symmetry.

***

Twitter mash up precedes. :)

Blackberries

I was 19
when we met
and I fell in love.
Two years later,
you were 19
when you
fell in love back.
We are 14 years older
and I still love all of you,
your rough touch,
fingers gripping,
stripping
me down
to nothing
but salt and blood
until your hunger
turns to healing.
I used to taste love
on your lips,
like blackberries
in summer,
hot chocolate
in fall.
You always tasted
like the best seasons.
I knew I loved you
when my heart jumped
from my chest.
I misplaced my pulse
but it always
belonged to you
anyway.
We shined brighter
than ten thousand glow sticks
stitched to a sky,
and our beams danced swifter
than fleeting memories
could fly.
A wild
and wondrous river
ran through
our veins,
eroding
and molding
our purpose.
Your edges
are my edges,
your soul,
my soul,
just like
we always wanted
to be.

***

Twitter mash up precedes. :)

Helium

You perform
a magic trick
each time
I hear your voice.
My heart balloons
with the helium of love
but words are your weapon
until you vanish,
yanking them into the dark
and leaving me
black and starless.
Your controlled negligence
is glorious insanity,
a reckless waste,
but the cracks are cracking
and your love
is leaking through.
We have become
faceless people,
phantoms
of who we once were.
Lost in empty rooms
we are nothing
and everything.
I wander
these mundane paths
in search of
something real
and I find myself
lost in you
instead.
The world
is a minefield
of memories
a graveyard
of words
a ghost town
filled with
your voice,
face,
soul.
Once again
your wicked edges
have razed
my wounded flesh,
and I am
not home
without you.

***

Twitter mash up precedes. :)

Smoke and Sunsets

These covert conversations
and secret spy games
exhaust my always weary eyes
as I search for us
down every weathered path.
I reach for smoke
in a twilight moment
suspended between
absence and awe
while you use mirrors
to hide our light
amongst the ashes.
I wake up
next to you
in another life
where the sun is red
and we wish on moons
instead of stars.
We are nothing but
smokey dreams,
divisions of memories
spliced with shadows
imagined before love ended,
a beginning joined to a finish,
a start sewed to a sunset.

***

Twitter mash up precedes. :)

Deflection

Deflection.
That’s a thing,
right?
Like,
when you place your feelings
about one thing
on to another.
Deflection.
That’s what I have
or do
or whatever.
All these really traumatic things
happen
or happened
or are happening
to me
and all I write about
is you.
I read that writing regularly
helps you become
more balanced,
healthy,
emotionally
and physically.
But I don’t write about
these traumas.
I write about missing a boy
who turned into a man
without me noticing.
I spin yarns
painted with the face
of a man
I hope still exists.
It’s strange
to think about
my life
but not write
a word.
Well,
maybe a few
tiny
glimpses.
My new friend
told me
I should write a memoir
of my life.
I only told her
a few things,
and,
yet,
here I am,
writing about that boy…
again…
and how all motion
stops
in your eyes.

Two

I am fractured,
not real,
a girl in two pieces
instead of one,
thinking like
another has my brain.
This is not me.
I am something else
altogether different
and separate,
sharp shards
with round edges,
and these poems
are yours,
really,
not mine,
not complete
because how
can they exist
amongst and away
from these footsteps
the physical me
takes through life?
How can I write
myself
for the world to read
when this writer
only exists on screen?
She is not
the real me.
Or maybe,
she’s so much
the real
that I can’t let her
escape into reality.
Not one person
I know in person
knows these words exist.
I cannot claim them.
They are hers
and yours
and neither of you
are real.

Jumping

I know it’s up to me
which makes these feelings
my fault.
Despite your silence
and eliminating actions,
I know it would be different
if I were different,
if I could just manage
to make a rational choice.
But choosing you
is so irrationally logical
that it doesn’t
make much sense
anyway.
It should be easy
to run towards a lifting love,
one that banishes
all self doubt,
but these feet
are stuck between
right and left,
solid ground and mid-air free-fall.
I know it’s me
who has to move,
to act,
to choose
this
or
that,
comfort
or
fear.
Would losing
be worth
winning?
Or would both roads
lead to ruin?
It’s these unknowns,
the ones you hold locked
inside a heart
that used to open
whenever I was in the room,
that leave me terrified
and standing on cliff’s edge,
five toes
on either side
of jumping.