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 Nov 2016 Metanoia
Jonathan Witte
Two days
from now
you won’t remember
how I laid you down
my six-year-old

of purple
sickly sweet

your body burning
up beneath
pink sheets
you kicked
to the foot
of the bed

I swear
you were
of mermaids
saddled on pink dolphins
like bejeweled rodeo stars
swimming closer
with long yellow hair
bucking waves—
sea girls with
one hand raised
in salty air,
in circles
wee galaxies
of ocean mist,
of sweat
on your lips.

At dawn
your fever
broke with
the sweetness
of candy glass
mason jars;
as embers,
a dimming
of stars.

Two days
from now
you won’t remember
how I came to you
in the middle
of the night
when you cried
out for me,
your voice
a song sung
by a small girl
burning up
the sea.
 Nov 2016 Metanoia
the gateway of your heart swings both ways
it could be full of old junk
or a freedom seldom found
a freely given love freely received freely lived
the eternal plane, the place a loving heart calls home.
 Nov 2016 Metanoia
Mustard & Mayonnaise sandwiches
Because nobody grocery shops in this place
After some time I learned to adapt
So it just became the new way

Oversleeping through breakfast
Lunch is noon and night
Mustard & Mayonnaise sandwiches
Because they satisfy my appetite

I begged my dad for turkey and Swiss
But he always managed to forget
And when friends asked "what do you got to eat"?
I'd say Mustard & Mayonnaise sandwiches

It's the little things we remember when we grow up
The dullest things can be so significant
They're a symbol of my childhood,
Those Mustard & Mayonnaise sandwiches
it's been nine summers since we left last off,
i never wanted to associate anguish with your face
but it hits me that there are certain things
i can never forget,
i cannot forget,
i will not forget,
that you made me,
shaped me in your delicate hands,
wove me under a spell that i have yet to
get out of--
you know you gave my childhood magic.
we lived in a kingdom of treehouse stories
and secret handshakes, our domain behind
white picket fences. we left our child selves
in your yard, remember?
i picked up the pieces of half
drowned memories, and put them by your bedside,
in case you thought to look and perhaps it was presumptuous of me to say you felt the same way
when i am the only one who is overdosed on nostalgia.

i'm sorry.
i am homesick for the arms i am not privileged to
be held with, homesick for the stairs that
creaked in your house, homesick
for a love i never deserved but always wanted.
i'm the old pick up truck your father threw away,
the ramshackle closet that got replaced,
the old curtains, oh god, oh, but this
is not about me,
this is about us.

we both agreed that we always hated the small town life
and planned to run away
but why is it now that i'm still holding onto spider webs
and your packed suitcase has flown you across the globe?
is it sad to say that in my dreams
we're still waiting in an empty parking lot,
and your head resting on my shoulder, the lights on the pavement,
it's already over, it already passed and the cars aren't there,
and the moment is gone.

maybe it's not the saddest thing in the world
to lose your best friend when the love
was never meant to be,
and maybe it's not the saddest thing to love
someone who will never love you as a lover,
maybe it's not the saddest thing to lose
someone who promised forever, even
if forever was only until we parted ways,
maybe it's not the saddest thing to lose
the first true friend you ever had,
maybe it's not the saddest thing to
never be able to walk up your front porch and have you come running
out to see me of all people,
it is the most painful happiness to see your smile
and knowing that i am not the reason.
all she wants to do
is make beautiful things,
but she doesn't even know what beauty is.

this looks nice, so simple, minimalism.
but is it a masterpiece?

question everything. the head is full.

what is art?
what is purpose?
what is pleasing?
what is ugly?
what is permanence?
what is thieving?

and of course there is the, "why?"

it continues.
it continues.

she thinks.
there is no answer.
simply a carousel of questions.
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