I do not remember love. I do not remember the way his fingertips graced my skin. I do not remember the gentility of his lips on my cheek. I do not remember the light in his Atlantic eyes. I do not remember the butterflies hatching in my stomach when he said my name. I do not remember his arms wrapped tightly around me. I do not remember the way my hands quivered so violently against him. I do not remember the tears in my eyes that night. I do not remember love.

He sits on a rusted red park bench beside a pond in the middle of an unfamiliar city and watches the pigeons bicker. He thinks back to the way her voice would break as she was about to cry, and how he spent far too much money dry cleaning the shirts stained by her running mascara. He finds a small corner bakery, buys a small loaf of the finest bread. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in a window, tweed hat casting a shadow over his hardened face, orange beard developing its own personality. His eyes close. When he returns to his bench, the pigeons remain, screaming and squawking. He picks off a piece of bread and throws it between them. He doesn’t think they’ve ever known about the finer things in life.

The world has been falling apart around me, but I can only muster the courage to lift my coffee cup. I give my belongings away to strangers because materialism is vain. Money is an object, nothing more. I’ve been burning pages of my diary, filled and blank, because the past has passed and the future is futile. I leave my soul to the stars in the hope that I will awaken among them. A cursed sigh escapes when the sun rises and my demons slip through the cracks in the wall. I do not know why I drink coffee in such a large quantity when slumber is the final escape. I have simply stopped believing.

I have not eaten in days, but I am not hungry. I stood knee-deep in the snow just to feel something. I didn’t feel anything. I wrapped my hands around the coffee *** to feel it burn. My palms reddened and blistered but felt nothing. I wrap my bones in sweaters but I do not feel warm, nor do I feel cold. I fell in love with a stranger on the train to see if my heart could break. It cannot.

I have shown the world
What is inside of me.
I have prayed to every god,
I have cursed every savior.
I have knelt at the feet of one
Who could not save me.
I have kissed the hands
Of those who choked me.
I have repented for my sins,
The sins that define me.
I have lost my faith.

I ask the stars to watch me sleep.
I ask the moon to envelop me.
I ask the sun to keep me safe.
I ask the wind to sooth me.
I ask the trees to guide my path.
I ask the ground to hold me.

One day I will meet my maker,
Not God nor anyone else.
I will meet the insects, the worms, the dirt,
Six feet under this earth.

The man in the waiting room,
Black briefcase,
Clad in grey.
Why are you here?
Fly on the wall,
I see the fear in your eyes.
You must not like needles.
Neither do I.

Coffee?

It does not run through our veins;

We see it only in our wounds.

We think of love and we find it,

Vibrant and terrifying and beautiful. 



It seems as though we see love as simply that:

An open wound
;
Spilled blood
Exposed to another’s oxygen.