the people of loss
have nothing on us,
pillows of unravelling floss.

only the pillow knows,
a pedestal for weakness,
our shared bygones.

art ain't about first tries
life's a slip but no slide
tears make for poor eyes
takes more than two hands to chin up
and you ain't a **** snake
no slide, just grind
no standing around
loitering not allowed

i should learn *******.

not the spider on the wall,
tenant with no real wherewithal.

not the neighbours sheep,
who make me lose my sleep.

i should learn ******* my brother; anger.

until i learn *******,
my heart's incessant aria
will sing of a mangled furia.

a twist of cain, please guide my hand,
cut everything out wherever you land.

father of ******, i am your son,
don't disown what your faith had won.

when the last light is out,
when all the shadows coalesce
to form a path of quiet in the dark,

i haunt the halls better than any ghost,
i hold shadows dear more than most.

only in that twilight i let my hunger roam,
appetite too large for the crevices of a wakeful home.

i wish you weren't scared of my famine,
i wish you would learn how to eat me
with something
other
than
a
knife.

i would hand you a scalloped dessert spoon,
and you could pry my shell open,
like the kitchens biggest prize.

thank god for the dead memory.
thank god, that it died while it was still good.
thank god, that it still resembles something i might’ve prayed for.

thank god, that i prayed for the death i didn’t know.
thank god, that my tears couldn’t well up
for the spring on the other side of your death’s door.
thank god, yours was the first rain that taught me
what umbrellas were for.

thank god, that thanking god is such an empty phrase.
thank god, that it won’t grant you afterlife praise.
thank god, you’re now only a picture on a wall.
thank god, the effigies i bear in mind cannot be canonized,
for the things they’ve never done,
and the people they never were.

it's easy to say time heals all wounds,
when every barren branch blooms again in spring,
when every new chick is taken under a safe wing.

but time is yet to wake me from my eternal winter sleep.

i still lay, unmoving, in my barren keep.

even bears leave me behind,
a permanent fixture in their den,
"maybe time will wake him next spring,"
they say, now and then.

the forest whispers above my head,
calling to the last absentee,
but i am no tree,
and spring does not speak to me.

and i thought we said,
"we don't go these lengths for people",
and yet here i am,
right before your finish line.

lately life feels like an invisible fire,
doused in methanol,
hot on my heels.

so, Vigiles, lay into me a firebreak,
right down my spine,
quench the fiery blood.

make me a dormant hearth full of cinder,
promise me to colder nights.

just don't forget to bring a match,
bring the spark to my thatch.

each night a game of cat and mouse,
the sun rises as i creep into my bed like a louse.

the moon is my lover, i am its knight,
in the suns absence, i am loyal to the night.

the sun flirts with me on the edges of dawn,
but i am not of yesterday, i am no fawn.

and now, the crack of dawn puts me to sleep,
beloved moon, until sundown i leave my heart in your keep.

i relate in body parts,
because my words fall short of hearts.

i relate, in knowing we both have twelve pairs of ribs,
the same way you and i have the curve to our hips.

i relate, in knowing your ulna runs down my radius,
the same way my thumb runs down your humerus.

i relate, in knowing how our teeth align,
the same way you compliment my design.

so i nest my mandibula,
in the crevice of your scapula,
set my rhythm to the countdown of your vertebra.

i relate, in knowing a pair of lips doesn't make two,
not unless they meet as me and you.

i don't know how to process grief,
so i pick the memories,
put them in a basket,
like apples plucked from a tree.

there they'll rot, pungent and sweet,
until it ferments,
and then i'll get drunk on the memory.

the rancid cider hardly sates the thirst,
but going down it feels like pins and needles,
and my throat swells with a memory reversed.

everyone in the world loses their childhood like a misplaced toy,
swallowed by the gaps in the couch.
putting your hand in, reaching back for it, only gets you *****.
and the lost toy appears in your dream,
like a flaming hero, a powerful swan, a gallant steed.
and you dream of the foe slain by your favourite effigy.
when you wake up, the dream lingers in the morning.
memory of a feeling, a place you could step back into,
if only you found the right path back.
but the dawn never feels the same anymore.
the sun still rises, the fog is still pink,
but you are older now.
and some worlds only exist once.

manus tuas scriptam sunt,
moles in your skin sunburnt,
lines of every schematic in an unknown line,
belied by the touch of time.

I'm hoping to burn in the heat of your flame,
when the heretics try to utter your name,
the manual to your every outline and flaw
will be lost to the masses and die by my law;
love.

my life is a treasure hunt,
waiting for my dowsing rods to meet.

somewhere down the road, you sink into my embrace,
and my arms cross behind your back like they found a spring.

and the water is so sweet.