Aug 2012
We talked about you in the office
a while ago under the cold hum of the air-conditioner. Laughter spilled
like coffee on the table;
like a river of tears falling to a waterfall beneath my eyes—
yes, your name spilled along the cloth crusted walls
of the office and my tears fall along my dirt filled face;
but I know I’m laughing and just throwing sunshine
and marble smile along the table—
Of course they knew I was laughing but they wonder
if I was biting ******* my lip and mix blood and saliva
and spill… just spill…
Spill the day when the headline liquidates to a moist
in my head to cover my skull with molds and fogs I know will stay
like old rusts which no one knows how to clean.
It became a new joke that we’re trapped in and we would just laugh.
I even told them that I remember
how your lips damp wet
and the words that you would spill would just flow like rivers I know
should be down below but instead were floating
along the skyline and I’m trying
to think about rainbows for
every corner the sun’s rays would pass by is just
another crystal shard to burst out a million spectrum
I did not know exist.
I even told how you painted my world anew
when you took that flight and went off
with your everything—yes, along with the memories
we buried in that broken ceramic time capsule
in your backyard—yes, I know—I remember—I told
them. And yet, I know I should not be spilling laughter along
the table, making myself believe of one final joke—one final blow—
a punchline that God missed to hit me with.
Here I am—trying
to chew your name and the memories into tiny shards and making it
incoherent as possible—
trying to dismantle and melt
what’s left of you inside of my throat;
I want everything to spill like pop rocks in my mouth.
Because all I want to do is swallow
you whole like a candy gemstone
given to me on my fifth birthday,
but I knew my throat is so small
and I never knew it wasn’t a candy;
it was all glass and everything that splinters.
Now, I know, I shouldn’t be spilling blood along the table,
but even wounds take time to heal.
a while ago under the cold hum of the air-conditioner. Laughter spilled
like coffee on the table;
like a river of tears falling to a waterfall beneath my eyes—
yes, your name spilled along the cloth crusted walls
of the office and my tears fall along my dirt filled face;
but I know I’m laughing and just throwing sunshine
and marble smile along the table—
Of course they knew I was laughing but they wonder
if I was biting ******* my lip and mix blood and saliva
and spill… just spill…
Spill the day when the headline liquidates to a moist
in my head to cover my skull with molds and fogs I know will stay
like old rusts which no one knows how to clean.
It became a new joke that we’re trapped in and we would just laugh.
I even told them that I remember
how your lips damp wet
and the words that you would spill would just flow like rivers I know
should be down below but instead were floating
along the skyline and I’m trying
to think about rainbows for
every corner the sun’s rays would pass by is just
another crystal shard to burst out a million spectrum
I did not know exist.
I even told how you painted my world anew
when you took that flight and went off
with your everything—yes, along with the memories
we buried in that broken ceramic time capsule
in your backyard—yes, I know—I remember—I told
them. And yet, I know I should not be spilling laughter along
the table, making myself believe of one final joke—one final blow—
a punchline that God missed to hit me with.
Here I am—trying
to chew your name and the memories into tiny shards and making it
incoherent as possible—
trying to dismantle and melt
what’s left of you inside of my throat;
I want everything to spill like pop rocks in my mouth.
Because all I want to do is swallow
you whole like a candy gemstone
given to me on my fifth birthday,
but I knew my throat is so small
and I never knew it wasn’t a candy;
it was all glass and everything that splinters.
Now, I know, I shouldn’t be spilling blood along the table,
but even wounds take time to heal.
