Each stone laid
Separate but together
Layers and layers
Of constructed existence
The rain seeps through
The slippery spaces of divide
Touching every surface
Recognizing its existence
In case they themselves forgot
What it means to suffer
And the division between
The top and the accumulation
Of rainwater on the bottom

I was in the mood for salt,
though I knew you were delicious
I became deaf to your music
though I was once tuned to your frequencies
my nose was clogged like a sickness
which made me immune to your scent
my senses became senseless
and thus I traveled
Looking to wake them up again

my lips are frozen

but you are beautiful

The only way I am able

to express

is to write it in icing

with a single candle in the middle

to represent the birth of the amalgamation

of silly, musical, poetic musings

which float like rain clouds

waiting to be opened again

I was protecting a treasure

I was sharing a meal

I was hoping to learn the phases of the moon

each of these snapshots

so distant from that little girl

and yet her image replaced my own

as I allowed their opinions to matter

She radiated a different kind of beauty then

back when her toes got stepped on

she learned to tie her shoes

but now in this light

that knowledge slips away from me

like a sheer scarf, the illusion of comfort

and the treasure is exposed

as I am, raw and real

but feeling like contorted plastic

wrapped around these pictures

of stories I used to tell myself

before she even knew

how to tell fables

I interpreted the silence

as awaiting, anticipation

I stretched to your vessel

swimming on my expanse

of flowing tears and tongue

in the hopes your boat

would capsize

and sink into me

but you did not fall

in my direction

my compass was wrong

and now I am lost

in my own desperate sea

The dimly lit doorway

into a place where you only

spend five minutes and five bucks

the place between lost

and I’m willing to lose it all

the highway, a tongue

and this, just a taste bud

the simple reward of sweet

combined with the punishing truth

that this is the last stop before the end

this is where I find

what I’m looking for

reminder of the cold comfort

smell of the basement

the mystery of shelves and shelves

the times and the heights

and the smoke drifting

up in the distance

which later we breathed into our lungs

as purposeful recognition

endless padding and falling

our feet like pedastools

showcasing unrecognized art

which we donate to the second-hand store

only to buy back later

what I’m hungry for now

will probably eat me

until I reverse and find

the path which lead me

to this story which I told

and found repeating

to the walls

which hold our weary arms

stretch marked from grasping tight

to what we found important