You told me that the
tables had shifted;
moved along their
legs into some other
space,
their shutters
had come down,
along
with the blinds
and it was all sent
down for good.
You said that
this place held
memories
etched into
every corner of
it's being,
you said you were
used to spending
afternoons
navigating through
the same corridors
you'd spent the
last year getting
lost in
and I thought
of the tables
turning themselves
away
in departure,
dust settling
on wood
turning into
old rusty
wood.
I thought of
how similar tables
would
move into the spaces
you'd let them occupy,
they'd reclaim their title
and
similar legs and spine
would stand
straight across a
plain, against
which you
set cards and
half empty bottles.
Things we leave
behind
take up portions of us,
cling to our skin
and make us
feel still within
and
this feeling won't
escape you soon
but I want you
to know that
you can
always trace your
mind around maps
of places that exist
only in memory,
you can
revisit them sometimes,
but you must bring
your defenses along.

I'd bend rules for you;
merge my morals and
desires in a plate,
tremors surfing
down my spine,
wishing I could
choose the
comfort of
righteousness over the
way your eyes flicker,
sending
stardust down your cheeks.

I'd set off forest fires,
burn
down whole cities,
as I come on steadier
and heavier into your home,
to
greet your fireplace
with my
embrace and
watch the light
I made
play itself on the walls,
as we
consumed more
than fire for
a night.

Sometimes
I wish you were
definite.
A constant, unwavering
silhouette of a future
I could run
to, with certainty
that after I make
it to the end of the
tunnel, you'd be
there with your
hands, reaching
for me, telling me, that
this is
all there is to it;
some people travel
around cities under
different names
and swim deeper
down trenches
to find this
but we
are absolute,
right now,
right here.

I look at the mahogany
and the
crystals lining
your table,
as I think that
we are perhaps,
a crack
in the roof of a house,
that only
allows
sunlight
and shields
itself
against snow.

Coming back was
yellow;
wickers of fire/
skies setting/
birds in cages
who have
forgotten
what their bodies
were meant to do/
walls in
cheap hotels that
smell like
ash and bleach
and consolation.

Leaving here was
red;
passion and desire
combusting
into air,
leaving a ring of smoke/
hope tucked into
back pockets/
inner linings and
fears woven thick
into cloaks & masks/
blood and roses/
humane and the harsh/
dresses that were
given away/
beginning again
because
nothing was holding you back.

Running felt like heaps of
green;
grass that grows too long/
sweaters never
bought/
trees never climbed/
Eden came crashing,
sending
the remains of things you
carried into air/
curtains in a home you didn't
decorate.

Living was puddles of
grey;
in betweens of order and chaos/
the parking line separating
the definitive from the infinite/
smudged after years of
toppling
over and standing
too close to the
borderline/
murky ink running/
black
isn't enough anymore/
your
certainty isn't
two dimensions but
blurry almost theres/
forgotten
memories/
Purity isn't white,
it's brown
and it cracks
and it
mends and shifts
form between hands
and isn't acknowledged.


The colors come seeping through,
potholes on old roads/
dirt paths /sirens/ bodies
unable to make sense of
new beginnings and
shared histories.