You can tell his hands have worked to the bone,
dirty fingernails tracing art in the dark of the room.
Dust scattered on the floor, the desk, the lamps.
He hasn't been here in a long time: seven years
to be exact. What he left behind was a book
filled with love and somewhere two weeks after
he dies, a twelve year old girl will find it.
And read it cover to cover until she became
a love story in herself.
You can ask the sky
how many times she's sighed at the passing
of someone she's never met, and feels she knows
Love means never being forgotten
You can't hold the short arm of the clock
and call it yesterday.
And in the end we're always more lost than ever found. But isn't that what life is all about? Finding your way back to yourself.
Happy new year everyone.
I hope joy gets your address right this time.
The night unravelling,
caught in the moment of the earth's
dance on its tilt
when it's just as day
as it is the night; like light
appearing behind shut eyelids
who am I to trust
when the earth turns and dreams
turn into daytime reveries
will I wake up and forget
or will your elbow slide off the table
and break the spell?
This time is a perfidious lover,
so tell me,
whose side is it on
Why do you take beautiful things
and turn them into instruments
I become an answering machine
of unread messages.
Why does it take so long
for me to remember that
the other side of the bed has been colder
This sadness will last forever.
Underneath these artless skies
I marry the ghost within you
because the stories are now
screaming mad, and dark,
and every time your name
rolls unto my tongue, it thunders,
and I tremble, and tremble,
and like a thousand ships set against
the tide, I will my eyes to sleep;
cold as ice, mother, pray tell
how does one go to sleep when
Thanatos is the one weaving the
blanket; rather awake than dead;
half a heart than half a soul;
tell me if I open you up I'll find anything
other than flesh, other than nothingness;
you're so vacant and uninhabited, I forget
you're not an abandoned building;
tell me how I can go to sleep
without being woken up by the ghost
of you in my head, dancing to music
we once made when we touched; I'll
revisit those little joys, and maybe I'll
understand why empty vessels make
the loudest noise.
The car will edge past the truck maybe
and maybe we'll survive this message
playing on repeat, apologies like daft lilies
and then you go ahead and tell me that you've never
learnt from your mistakes, or my mistakes.
That mistakes are only bad unless you change the order
of analogy. This experiment has been contaminated.
Now a fresh batch. Trust me, there's a point to this.
I'm counting back from a hundred and two
and you've got me standing in the middle of the highway,
blindfolded; this is what loving you felt like,
you said. But I think it was more dramatic in my head.
Nuclear fission and the seige of Dresden dressed
up playing Adagio in D minor; I'm dust. I'm dust.
I've become ash and misery and I'm trying to stay inside you
but you've been coughing a lot, and who's to say
you were holding your breath for something exciting,
I just know for a fact that at the end of this beep,
you'll know what to do and yet
you're not going to leave another message.
Richard Siken, Scheherazade