and in another universe,
you and I are still together.

I'm 18 today
but I feel 80
more like an old crickity relic
long forgotten,
never treasured,
wandering around
trying to figure out where I fit
where I might belong
hoping someone will dig through my crusted dirt
and polish me off
knowing that I am gold underneath,
but I fear I will have rotted away
before that ever becomes a possibility.

he puts concentrated, constant effort into every day.
he has no choice, and you can see it in his face.
it looks rough. it looks like work and worry.
it looks like inexplicable failure.
it looks like mine.
I look away.

Sometimes I open my eyes to find my room darker than I remember,
and sometimes I dream that I have murdered,
I dream that I am careless.
Sometimes I open my eyes to find my room emptier than I remember.

Weird girl, weird girl. She is sorry she opened her eyes.

The moment God folded us into flesh
He wrote about perfection in his journal
Put our picture on his refrigerator
Day dreamed about selflessness
Spoke of passion
Wrote a book on love
As the dust settled on that day
God rested for he knew
We were fully broken
Ready to be made right

like a stone you fell, stars on your lips,
out of the dark, like a bird carrying the sky.

i stretched towards you my soul singing
of meadow grasses and old ruins.

everything you touched became a flame,
joy burnt like a fever beneath your wings.

i ran to you, shadows drawing back
the night like a curtain.

oh, the echoes of a pounding heart, across hills,
across continents, you strided on the wind

until the sea shook out its sheets
and the leaf shivered on the branch.

the night settled its layers of black
into dark forests, rested against the glassy tide

and you were gone, you were gone,
lost to hair more fragrant than mine.

clouds of lilac blossom
thick in the blue air.

day unwraps in slow
whispers and the wind
is more lonely than am i.

the sky is a broken
vase, little
pathways of the sun,
her strange loads,
her happy voice.

the lilacs were our love song
may swept into our hair and eyes
little pieces of me scattering
like breaking waves.

dipped in the magical ink
of flowers
the garden cries
for its wilderness
its withering of sky
its blossoming of twig
until you can’t see the sky
and it becomes softly an impression,
a fine mist of golds.

no song now,
only the death of the
wind and a new road
that winds from the silver distances
of the moon.

only a harbour where i
rest for a while, a little
boat bobbing where the waves lap,
waiting for you...