christopher-evan - Hello Poetry

There is a room of everything I wish I’d said. It tastes of everything that’s empty. I brush until my mouth bleeds. Do not touch me with your forgiving eyes, I do not deserve to be whole. There is an ocean full of light here somewhere, I heard it. It’s a shame I cannot swim, there is so much I can’t lose. You said you’d be here. You said you’d be here. Maybe one day. One day it will exist. The place where we remember. Where everything remembers. But it has been quiet lately. I am everywhere but here. There is a room of everything you wish you’d said. It tastes of everything that’s empty. I stay until my mouth bleeds.

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Dec 14, 2014

Dec 14, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC

I stay until my mouth bleeds.

There is a room of everything I wish I’d said. It tastes of everything that’s empty. I brush until my mouth bleeds. Do not touch me with your forgiving eyes, I do not deserve to be whole. There is an ocean full of light here somewhere, I heard it. It’s a shame I cannot swim, there is so much I can’t lose. You said you’d be here. You said you’d be here. Maybe one day. One day it will exist. The place where we remember. Where everything remembers. But it has been quiet lately. I am everywhere but here. There is a room of everything you wish you’d said. It tastes of everything that’s empty. I stay until my mouth bleeds.

20

Open up your canyon lungs and let me breathe like I am living. I have forgotten what this tastes like. The sky is awfully quiet, like it has something to hide. Dig up your bruised knuckles from those sand-filled pockets. We will rebuild the sun. I sink my teeth into forgiveness and it pours out my mouth. Overripe; I always wait too long. Foolish, to keep important things in drawers you never look in. So I’ve dug up the front yard, there were directions here somewhere. Do not look at me like the stopwatches on our hearts are the same. Mine is counting up. But forget that I left the front door unlocked, this is a postcard from where I am visiting. I hope it makes you hopeful too. I’m sorry I don’t say things I don’t mean. You are the ocean, and I never know where to put my hands.

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Aug 12, 2014

Aug 12, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC

Orchard

Open up your canyon lungs and let me breathe like I am living. I have forgotten what this tastes like. The sky is awfully quiet, like it has something to hide. Dig up your bruised knuckles from those sand-filled pockets. We will rebuild the sun. I sink my teeth into forgiveness and it pours out my mouth. Overripe; I always wait too long. Foolish, to keep important things in drawers you never look in. So I’ve dug up the front yard, there were directions here somewhere. Do not look at me like the stopwatches on our hearts are the same. Mine is counting up. But forget that I left the front door unlocked, this is a postcard from where I am visiting. I hope it makes you hopeful too. I’m sorry I don’t say things I don’t mean. You are the ocean, and I never know where to put my hands.

25

My hands are full of cement, I do not forget. Currents run through your fingertips, I trace honesty along the edges of your ribcage. Do not look back. Your head is not a home for liars. This is meant to be felt. Come close, I will show you how much you exist. I do not forget.

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Aug 4, 2014

Aug 4, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC

cement.

My hands are full of cement, I do not forget. Currents run through your fingertips, I trace honesty along the edges of your ribcage. Do not look back. Your head is not a home for liars. This is meant to be felt. Come close, I will show you how much you exist. I do not forget.

10

I close my eyes. There is a home inside here somewhere. I remember. It sinks slightly to the left. My knees are covered in mud. The trees have pushed into the living room, sunflowers are rotting out the woodwork. I have grown awkwardly into the floorboards. They remind me that is okay. I forget. It keeps me full, all this emptiness. The windows are all open. The hinges let go of every door. I learn. Trace the outline of each frame, hear the echo of hollow footsteps: "Love more, love more, love more." I have never been here before. This is what it must be like; beginning.

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Jul 27, 2014

Jul 27, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC

This is what it must be like; healing.

I close my eyes. There is a home inside here somewhere. I remember. It sinks slightly to the left. My knees are covered in mud. The trees have pushed into the living room, sunflowers are rotting out the woodwork. I have grown awkwardly into the floorboards. They remind me that is okay. I forget. It keeps me full, all this emptiness. The windows are all open. The hinges let go of every door. I learn. Trace the outline of each frame, hear the echo of hollow footsteps: "Love more, love more, love more." I have never been here before. This is what it must be like; beginning.

23

I fell out of love with the bottom half of the sky today. It reminded me of home. I've grown weak carrying a half splintered heart. It only floats on the third Wednesday of the month and holidays that start with "yesterday." It's all the same. I'd rather drown. I think home is where you don't feel so alone. I've tried, you know. It's all the same. I've left two voicemails for whoever lives here now. I think they're sorry they're so empty. It's just been so quiet lately. I am tired, and so very far from home.

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Jul 7, 2014

Jul 7, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC

far.

I fell out of love with the bottom half of the sky today. It reminded me of home. I've grown weak carrying a half splintered heart. It only floats on the third Wednesday of the month and holidays that start with "yesterday." It's all the same. I'd rather drown. I think home is where you don't feel so alone. I've tried, you know. It's all the same. I've left two voicemails for whoever lives here now. I think they're sorry they're so empty. It's just been so quiet lately. I am tired, and so very far from home.

15

I remember every metaphor I used for you. It’s beautiful how quickly I ran out. It was just so difficult to describe a forest at the bottom of an ocean on fire. You were soft, I was quiet. I remember every park bench, every broken sidewalk, every open sky. It was so whole. I remember breathing, and the lovely amount of effort it required. I hope you do too. They say writers remember the important things; I say they are liars. I remember you wore a purple flannel the first time I saw you, even though it isn’t your favorite colour. I remember that you take your coffee black, and your tea with plenty of honey. I remember the way your eyes changed colour based on the weather, and the way you looked at the sky, like it was endless. You were endless. I remember everything you taught me. They say writers remember the important things; I remember you.

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Jun 27, 2014

Jun 27, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC

I’ll always remember you

I remember every metaphor I used for you. It’s beautiful how quickly I ran out. It was just so difficult to describe a forest at the bottom of an ocean on fire. You were soft, I was quiet. I remember every park bench, every broken sidewalk, every open sky. It was so whole. I remember breathing, and the lovely amount of effort it required. I hope you do too. They say writers remember the important things; I say they are liars. I remember you wore a purple flannel the first time I saw you, even though it isn’t your favorite colour. I remember that you take your coffee black, and your tea with plenty of honey. I remember the way your eyes changed colour based on the weather, and the way you looked at the sky, like it was endless. You were endless. I remember everything you taught me. They say writers remember the important things; I remember you.

28

Don’t breathe deeply. It’s exhausting. Trust me, I’ve tried. I think a lot about how much strength trees have, and if they have any extra I can borrow. I think a lot about how if I don’t go to sleep, I won’t have to wake up tomorrow.

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Jun 17, 2014

Jun 17, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC

water daily. avoid direct sunlight.

Don’t breathe deeply. It’s exhausting. Trust me, I’ve tried. I think a lot about how much strength trees have, and if they have any extra I can borrow. I think a lot about how if I don’t go to sleep, I won’t have to wake up tomorrow.

10

These things happen I suppose. They always happen. I used to care about something, you know. I did. I used to feel something when I stared at the sky. Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet, and my lungs have lost their warmth. The clouds eat me whole as I walk home. They smile. Sometimes I do too. But I've wandered too far this time, these steps don't look familiar. Someone still sleeps inside this house, but it's not me. Someone still lives inside these bones, but it's not me.

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Jun 12, 2014

Jun 12, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC

I left a long time ago

These things happen I suppose. They always happen. I used to care about something, you know. I did. I used to feel something when I stared at the sky. Now the hardwood feels cold under my feet, and my lungs have lost their warmth. The clouds eat me whole as I walk home. They smile. Sometimes I do too. But I've wandered too far this time, these steps don't look familiar. Someone still sleeps inside this house, but it's not me. Someone still lives inside these bones, but it's not me.

16

I drove past your house yesterday and wondered if you still remember how I look, sound, feel. Foolish, I know. It's so beautifully arrogant though, how you still demand to be felt.

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May 28, 2014

May 28, 2014 at 1:42 AM UTC

and how easily I concede.

I drove past your house yesterday and wondered if you still remember how I look, sound, feel. Foolish, I know. It's so beautifully arrogant though, how you still demand to be felt.

8

There's a faded scar on my right shoulder from three summers ago, two more on my left from this winter. One on my chin from the pavement that got the better of an 8 year old who couldn't say "no", and another on my wrist to remind me that metal detectors no longer find me empty. It's alright that you left, but please don't act like I'll just be okay again. I don't heal well, never have.

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May 23, 2014

May 23, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC

never will.

There's a faded scar on my right shoulder from three summers ago, two more on my left from this winter. One on my chin from the pavement that got the better of an 8 year old who couldn't say "no", and another on my wrist to remind me that metal detectors no longer find me empty. It's alright that you left, but please don't act like I'll just be okay again. I don't heal well, never have.

14