I cried as the stars bore low, a listening ceiling of silver rips and pins. There was no moon and they pressed lower and lower still.
And all that could be heard was the ebb and flow of one creaking
breath, one and then another,
I was surprised that they were mine.
I pushed myself forth and away from the horror of your love in that coffin of a room.
An epithelalium, a dirge and a hymnal came to me at dawn. It was a birth into a clean white winter.
There is a bright place on the frosted pane where my salt water has melted through;
Though I falter in my steps I know my legs will carry me far away.
Her love spills out like scarlet seeds,
and red wine rolled on jealous tongues,
and gold leaves nestled in her hair.
It feathers during secret deeds
whilst breath is passed between two lungs.
Rubies cluster at her throat
like blood clots that her flesh forgot.
She draws him to her, limb in limb,
a desperate love dressed up in quilts.
The seeds that bloomed may sometime rot,
and candles die, and lust grow dim,
but I dreamt that he'll still gasp her name,
and she wish to be close to him.
I dream of swimming in the sun, in the ebb and flow of your love,
My desire for you outstrips my redeeming qualities. I want to hold you, know everything about you, know your mind fully and suddenly like turning on the lamp in the unseen expanse of a dark room. If I could have just one day more I'd spend it kissing you all over.
I would like to walk under the sun, and in the shade where it is cooler,
where the woodland floor isn't all dry leaf anymore,
just purple and blue, waving a little, like a great sea.
To drag my pale white hand in the waters, to bring it out cold and soft as a feather,
and hear a blackbird and a thrush pass the time of day.
To turn down the road and wade into the creek, instead of walking on by,
To look upon the green green face of spring.
I've forgotten what it feels like to walk on cobbles,
Forgotten the smell of life, vanilla from the bakery, coffee in the morning,
Warm air and leaves blowing. I've forgotten the sun, that the planets still turn, how other people say my name,
What it's like to hug a friend in passing.
Forgotten standing in a butterfly house in the summer and smiling, couples sleeping like lazy housecats on the grass in the park,
The lives of strangers. 18
and now soon to be 19, too young to have no memories of summer, on the verge of leaving myself behind forever. I think that soon the world will forget me too.
We all went down to the river early one Saturday,
along the main road, cold hands in pockets,
walked through the park and stopped to hear the happy shouts of children playing on the swings.
I'd forgotten what it was like to play.
And into the river they all went, leaping and splashing like otters
in the cold November water; churning and frothing, sending dazzling light everywhere. I saw the black branches of the trees
shooting up every which way, impossibly high,
wise and old and solid, against the endless white of the sky.
I sat on the bank with the towels and stroked a little dog that walked by.
That night I looked a little longer at the leaves blowing on the quad;
the mist swirling on the grass and
lights blinking off and on in windows with the curtains open-
I saw life reflected there.