In the eyes they do notice,
in the hand there are quarters,
in the room there is silence,
in the memory there is little.

Chatting and
dancing and
***** and
water and
and
and

Sunlight and
bite marks and
nausea and
oh no and
and
and

In the eyes they did notice,
in the hand there were quarters,
in the room now there is nothing,
and as a memory we'll be.

As if it could touch a deity,
a feeling embodied in the fingertips of Adam, it could.
A reach into the rumors amongst passers-by,
lifetimes woven into alleyways, backpacks.

Is it not enough to love vibrantly, like a window in daylight?
To not only be seen, but to be seen through -
reflecting back blurred gestures and nervous habits.
Translating the apparition into sighs and enamor.

The core - the eigendecomposition - speaks confidently.
Hiding in each each verbal pillar the tiniest wound.
Down in the space below, the basis for it -
that feeling embodied in the fingertips of Adam.
Reaching as such towards rapture of the deep,
hoping in each joint to love so deeply,
it was as if it could touch a deity.

It's not much different than a torn seam,
you pull hard enough and the thread comes out.
But no point in nurturing a tear that can't be found,
it's just nice to imagine these stitches have a purpose.
Or that injury doesn't beget an added insult.
It can just be injury.
Either way I can't get you out of my seams.

Parts of me still feel like I'm idolizing you somehow,
ironing you onto whatever memories look nice with jewelry.
The rest of me knows it for sure. Worn with verbiage,
I'm happy to never speak of it with you again. I really meant that.
Silence is a close friend of mine despite how infrequently it visits, but secrecy and I have always been closer.

My needlepoint feels impossibly delicate when I can see your curls at approximately 55 miles per hour. My hands unravel away fast enough that I couldn't hem it anyway.
Pastel blue eyes in the sun, and a tapestry of tattoos fill my vision. Your nails dyed carefully and applied to you like buttons. The outfit looks great by the way. I am so nervous in front of you. I always have been.

I appreciate your understanding and your embroidery of it, easing the bits of it all I still hold onto. I've never been much of a seamster but I've mended a few things in my time. Eventually I'll be clinical enough to clip the threads left over. Maybe I'll even be able to pull them out. For now I've tailored myself to fit into a role I'm happy to fill, but the threads keep ******* breaking.

My mother once told me it was underground
Grimacing just under the pavement
As if to smile its way into the sun
Teeth of dropped gum and bullets

Laughter and light do not show me this
In naïveté I doubt her judgement
To smile back at the sidewalk and roads
Just to step on the cracking pavement

My poor mother

Give it concrete just to crumble
Fill it with metal aching to bend
Tireless and careless steps in any order
Cover it in paint and sand it off

Pull apart each atom
Build each city with closed eyes
Take out a hard drive without ejecting it
Print over the paper again

Break it again
Do it again
Hit whatever it is
Destroy it for fun
Creation and chaos are lovers
Bound not by rings but by anvils

I hear them coming up the stairs
I’d say it’s late for them because it’s late for me
Mornings greet him and I the same
Promptly

And the daytime greets her too
Frequently a surprise to her and I both
I think they must have had a wonderful wedding

Laying in the hallway to avoid my bed frame
All four legs come up the wooden walkway
You both laugh so kindly with one another
I’ve been looking for music lately
How kind for you to play it at my door