Death has transformed my ghosts into thoughtful gentlemen.
They insist we wander from my obligation to misplaced guilt
And the cold carcass of whateverthisrelationship was.
Two of them take me by hand. The third trails behind,
Carrying my laced veil of sorrow,
Preventing my tumble into a coil of aged anxiety.
We walk for some time,
Strolling a pathway filled with memories and lost love.
The route is familiar, but each step weighs on my soul.
I grow tired maneuvering the course terrain.
The ghost bearing my veil of sorrow takes me into his arms,
Comfort.
The other two take place their place before and behind us:
Predictability and Reassurance.
I fall asleep to the steady pace of Comfort.
I awake in a meadow of Indian paintbrush.
Vivid colors are masked by sleepy shadows
while stars descend in the form of tranquil snowflakes.
Wakefulness is an illusory dream.
My ghosts take turns recounting fond memories
That both warm and sting my hands.
Ghosts are ghosts because they're only ever half-present,
Fluctuating between present and departed.
Their presence is transient and perpetual.
But there's a certain security in knowing
My ghosts are dependable enough to find me
When daylight turns to
nightmare.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
The walls are bare
And the heart of whateverthisreleationship
Is (...was?) lays inches from death on the tile floor.
Each pulse is exaggerated
And
intermittent.
It feels profane to place blame on something that's dying.
But Heart is the December freeze creeping through the screen door
And I'm tired of being cold.
The artificial sunlight in this room was blinding.
Fake daylight is a mockery here, and I don't care for pretenses.
Darkness better suits this occasion.
As the filament in the bulb sighed its last breath of light,
My sympathetic ghosts leaned in to hush my tears.
They now sing warm lullabies that feel like contradictions:
How odd that they're the ones here to comfort me
While you're so
distant.
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:57 AM UTC
I live in a world where "you're perfect" means "but not for me"
And where being "too much" is somehow not enough.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
This heart isn't home anymore.
The numbers on the mailbox are faded and curling,
Destination undetermined.
The people and places in the photographs are foreign,
Yet they point at me in my cell of isolation and cast stones.
The suffocation of the warmth
Constantly battles the harshness of the cold.
Neither ever wins,
But I'm always caught in the crossfire.
The other day,
I hurled a ray-less lamp at the window
And called for a legion of pigeons
To carry my breathless cry for miles.
Fifty messages went out.
Only one returned:
my dear,
i'll be seeing you.
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC
If I tell you I love you,
Does that mean I get to keep you?
Or does it mean you are now the owner
Of a sharp piece of information
You may decide to stab me with later?
If you are
Ever so inclined
To tell me you love me back,
Does that mean you’re always going to feel that way,
Or is it conditional on the present moment
And you could possibly change your mind
Six months down the road
And return my heart - battered?
Furthermore,
What does love even mean?
Because when I say I love you,
I mean that I want to be with you until the day I die
And every day thereafter. (Not to be dramatic).
When I say I love you,
I mean that I will be a solid, yet cozy, foundation for you.
I mean that I want to cuddle and drink pero with you every night.
I mean that I want to fall asleep in your arms and wake up next to you in the morning
Even though your hair may be parted down the middle.
I mean that every second, my mind is housing the thought of you
The thought, just an empty copy that my mind supplies in your absence.
I want the real you.
When I say I love you,
I mean that I like you. A lot. Always.
I mean that I will watch the World Series with you and your brother every year
(even though I've never before cared about the Red Sox)
I mean that I hope you’re having a great day
But I also mean that I miss you and that I hope you’re missing me as much as I'm missing you.
When I say I love you,
I mean the very thought of loving you makes me wish I never met you at all,
Because a world in which your eyes don’t smile at me is not a world,
But a nightmare
That sends my heart racing
Eyes crying
Heart bleeding
Soul dying. So
When I tell you I love you
Please.
Tell me you love me too.
Nov 19, 2017
Nov 19, 2017 at 12:23 AM UTC
i am a never-ending spiral of missing you.
in dreams i find myself in your presence,
these dreams turn to nightmares as reality is your absence.
i breathe in the air, and it smells like the autumn we spent together-
hauntingly warm and beautiful.
it smells like sunlight and leaves and happiness.
each inhale brings your memory closer,
each exhale pushes you further.
every white car I see is your Subaru.
the one that took us to the yellowing aspens.
every song has your jazz.
i could only listen to mumford and sons for three months.
every second is the absence of your embrace.
i know you're gone.
i KNOW.
i see your pictures with her
and i can see you're happy.
you have all of my happiness. you really do.
i have no consolation. no time. none at all.
never-never.
Sep 18, 2017
Sep 18, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
he said.
But please - if this is true - PLEASE tell me
WHY:
Do I hear your gentle hum in place of cricket melodies on warm nights that smell like summer?
I can feel your unspoken doubts and worries carve away at MY bones.
Does your face lights up when you see me, as if to say "Darling, I'm so glad I'm home!" Your gray sweater smells like that too.
I can't find a way to say goodbye to you. It isn't in my vocabulary. OUR words only know presence and adoration.
If your soul wasn't made for mine, who is going to hold your heart among the stars when the Earth is shattering beneath you.
I'm sure you could find someone else to,
But I know you'll be buried under ashes and rubble before you get around to it.
If your soul wasn't made for mine...
why did it tell me it was?
Sep 16, 2017
Sep 16, 2017 at 2:20 AM UTC
You are the catcher of my words.
I launch them at you from the pitcher's mound
In awkward and arhythmic velocities.
You gently collect them in your hands
And toss some level of adoration back.
You carved a staircase from ice,
But I'm not sure what that means.
I can't even tell if these divots are in your heart
Or mine. Both look the same.
This time,
No glass slipper was conveniently left behind
Only my heart.
Are you a catcher of hearts?
Did you pick it up from this snowy mine
To carefully navigate us through this love?
I don't have a map.
Please.
Show me the map.
I can see it in your eyes
But you refuse to allow it to escape.
I can read your scars like constellations.
They appear like veins of tears
Threading together a diamond.
You aren't broken like you think you are.
Please.
Allow me to show you.
Your heart is safe with mine.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:11 AM UTC
"Cleaning my room" is the technical term I use when I organize my possessions and move them from one cluttered place to another.
"Moving on" is the technical term I use when I rearrange my emotional crap and escort the memory of you out of my heart.
But I don't know why I bother doing either.
By next week,
Clothes will be strewn across the floor from hasty indecision,
And my heart will lurch at every sound my phone makes in hope that it's a message from you.
"Diffusion" is the technical term scientists use when describing the motion of something moving to any area of high concentration to low.
Scientists would label "cleaning my room" and "moving on from you" as an act of diffusion.
Refreshing at first.
A breath of fresh air, perhaps.
The result is equilibrium.
"Equilibrium" is the technical term I use for "I tried to clean my room, and I tried to stop thinking of you, but nature demands balance."
The clothes in my closet cannot stay there when gravity KNOWS there's unoccupied space on the carpet.
I cannot ignore your ghost rapping on the door of my heart when it's a vacant, abandoned mine inside.
If there's too much pressure on one side of the dam,
there's going to be a flood.
The definition of "flood":
Just a whole lot of stuff everywhere.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC
To the beat of a piano he stole
her heart.
In the same melody
and measure, he broke and left
it crumpled - crushed - crescendo.
Nothing but brittle - bruised - broken.
Out of tune.
Missing keys.
Mixing tears with toothpaste
and listening to a heartrending piano play.
Salt and ivory.
Colgate and ebony.
Repeat. With
Rhythm. There are
no words to this song.
Say something.
Silence - fortissimo.
Toothpaste and tears
trickle down the drain.
At the conductor's swift notion -
she remembers herself with love -
Adagio -
Then steps off her tear-stained
stage of a soapbox.
Al niente.
Aug 14, 2017
Aug 14, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC