The universe closes in on me
galaxies align
in matrices of light

This moment was never
meant to be

I'm a cloud
telling tales to the sky
a bit of wind
and I'll be gone

The moment slips through
my fingers
water into the well
while time
that mortal dragon
is readily slain
for there are no dragons
time is a myth
and this universe
bends backwards upon itself
eating its remains
and issuing forth
new life
in a fugue of renewal

again
and again.

I've thrown my body to the wolves more than once
And come back to find their teeth still embedded in my shoulders and my thighs and my neck

When the night is darkest, the moon is the highest and I want nothing more than to drown in lust covered sadness

If the lights were a little lower and my skin a little brighter would I consider myself ethereal?

The dreams that I've been remembering are the ones I'd rather not think about, but without them maybe I'd be a little happier

When winter hits, my bones will deteriorate until they contain no more than stars and remnants of you, until they exist only to those who touch my face too roughly

I'm not delicate by any means, but if kinder hands had cradled my aching laughter then maybe, I'd be a little happier

The rain falls in heavy sheets sometimes
And sometimes, it floats like the snow of an icy mountaintop

Leaves and trees and branches and grass give out their last breaths
Drying breaths, colour and lack thereof

The air always smells warm, even when it is not
Like the beginning of winter and soft caramel

Wind makes its home in the lofts of pine groves
And clears the shadows of thick foliage

The mornings are awake and alive and cold with winter
And the afternoons hazy and content and cozy with the leftovers of summer

Some forgive easily, and some
Do not.
Some deliberate why they should forgive,
Others deliberate who.
There are people who should be forgiven
And many who should not be.
There are those that think they should be,
And those who believe they shouldn't.
I, forgive slowly.
I ponder why I should forgive.
I do not forgive easily,
But I have forgiven those who deserve it.
You, are not one of those people.

Things that nobody talks about:
The desperation of loving someone who doesn't love you
How the sun feels warmer when you've spent a year being cold
The feeling of weightlessness after crying yourself to sleep
When he stares long and hard at you and smiles softly, making your eyes feel shy even when you are not
How people who used to exist in your orbit still take chunks off of your surface, even when you've taken so many hits you hardly exist.

Things that nobody talks about:
Even when you've moved on, even when you've found someone who loves you more, even when you've discovered better things, your skin remembers things best forgotten.

The outcome of a baseball game
Is obvious
One team will win and the other...
The other has to lose.

But what is the outcome
Of a match between
Us?
Is it even?
Is it fair?

We already competed
Once.
I would like to say
We were young,
Stupid, naive.
But we are the
Same age.
The same selves.

You've begun talking
To me again.
Why?
If you're hoping for
A rematch..
Well, the outcome
Won't be any fairer
Than it was
Before.

Tonight feels off. Like I do not exist. Like the lightning in the clouds could come down and strike my heart and make it feel less apart and more whole.
     The lightning bugs are so thick in my backyard that I can’t step
     outside with having to brush them off my arms. The grass glows
     everywhere and the owl sitting in its usual branch shades its
     black eyes against the green flashes.
My street gets deadly quiet at about this time of night. The street lamp hums a little and the crickets whir until the first rumble of thunder sweeps through, but then all is nothing. It stills with its grey cat slinking into the grey pavement and disappearing, looking everywhere with its yellow eyes, all sunk in their sockets.
     When the wind comes howling up the street I swear it’s crying,
     not just whimpering. It’s telling the trees how much it aches.
     How much it wishes the world would stop pushing it into the
     valleys and the canyons where it cannot fit easily.
A storm doesn’t prefer to ravage branches with its gentle fingers. It doesn’t prefer to shake my shoulders until I can’t help but cry. It prefers nothing.
     Would my house seem less hollow if I were more full? Would
     my bed seem more inviting if I knew what dreams would greet
     me?