You would stand in front of the window, naked and raw,
Black tears still stained down your face.
The moon's light doesn't quite frame you the same as it used to.
You think of the days of being illuminated and bright.
Of sunlight dripping off of you as your hands touched
Someone new, someone deserving, someone else.
Nothing since has ever felt as real, as true.
This light has traveled from a quarter-million miles away
To accuse you, cold and pale, cloying to your skin.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 8:34 PM UTC
You stand in front of the window,
A shaft of sunlight illuminating every stray, unkempt strand of hair.
Golden threads made more by one of God's rays.
From 92 million miles away, this light traveled
Just to shine through the window and frame you
Deific in the early morning.
I miss these mornings often. Reluctant in bed to move,
But my eyes wide open to see you there.
Louder and brighter than any church bell or stained glass.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 8:28 PM UTC
It's solidified now.
At times, I'm rather certain I feel nothing at all.
But some days, maybe a few times a month, it's there.
That touch on my shoulder.
The phantom pain
of a severed hand
of a guiding God
that was never there to begin with.
Jan 22, 2021
Jan 22, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
I've found myself nostalgic for days where I was unraveling.
I want to fall apart again.
I miss the feeling of my back against the wall in the dark as I sobbed,
with no goal other than surviving through the night.
That's how every week started.
Just one more night.
Just one more night.
Just one more night.
Just one more night.
Just one more night.
Just one more night.
Just one more night.
That's how every week started.
The fires are back, and I can smell the smoke
lingering over the 408 in the earliest AM hours.
Not quite late enough to be morning yet,
that mess of fog beneath the streetlamps blurring past.
Things have gone well enough that I'm terrified
of the fall of the next shoe,
of the rug being pulled out from under me again.
Things have gone well enough that I don't even miss you anymore.
There was a level of comfort in the despair of it all.
There was a simplicity in misery.
In all my days chasing the light at the end of the tunnel,
I never expected to find it so blinding.
Jan 21, 2021
Jan 21, 2021 at 5:25 AM UTC
I think I'm finally doing better.
I had to step away from it all
so that I could fill my lungs once more.
I found myself spinning, plummeting,
desperate to catch my breath.
heaving,
gasping,
choking,
It's been more than a year...
Has it? Will I wake up in March?
Some days I feel like I might wake up in March.
Or October, even.
Sitting on my bed as the floor fell out from beneath me,
Confident that I was at the lowest I could be.
But this world chose to prove me wrong.
A year spent heaving, gasping, choking,
and my lungs are full again.
I can stand again.
I can sleep without fearing I'll wake up in March.
Or October, even.
I'm still breathless, but I've made it.
Nov 2, 2020
Nov 2, 2020 at 6:42 PM UTC
It's no wonder I fell for you.
I watch you light up another cigarette,
A pack drained by the late afternoon.
Your delicate lips wrapped around the filter;
Your rough kiss, your tongue in my mouth,
The taste of that twentieth cigarette
Hung close in your mouth.
Like tongue-fucking the dirtiest ashtray
At the seediest dive bar
In the worst part of town.
Feb 25, 2020
Feb 25, 2020 at 12:52 PM UTC
I can't see the forest through the trees anymore
It's all just thicket to me now
No ocean to see behind the waves
No sea behind swells and squalls
I’ve become lost in the details
Of a life I find tolerable at best
One day I decided I knew
I couldn’t be happy with the overall
So I sifted the sands of details
To find some silver lining, a reprieve
And now I find myself lost in the failure
Of details that make up the failure of all
Now there’s no forest for me to see
It’s all just blurred to thicket for me
Dec 18, 2019
Dec 18, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
I hope you're doing well
I'm drunk and thinking of you
At four in the morning
But if I were to be honest
I was thinking of you sober
Back around noon, too.
Dec 14, 2019
Dec 14, 2019 at 3:15 AM UTC
The memory of you is radiant,
Bright and beautiful, like your fur.
But if I focus on it,
I can feel a slight burn,
Like the blisters on my palms
From the wood of the shovel
I dug your grave with.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC