the hardest lesson i ever learned
was never to dig a shallow grave.

i learned as a boy
young and teary eyed
scrapes on both knees
knee deep in mud,
too weak to lift the shovel.

i dropped your body in
left your corpse
in a shallow pit.

at a tender age
it was all i could do.

i didn't prepare for the flood
didn't see it coming
so when the rains hit
your body turned lazarus.

old haunts and dreams better off dead
drug their familiar names in my skin
and i aged decades in heartbeats.

the hardest lesson i learned
was that corpses stay dead
no matter how many prayers you send.

you are a corpse
of a forgotten promise
reeking of obsolescence.

don't you dare forget

that i buried you
once
twice
three times

that you still rose to
haunt me in the quiet hours
of a morning too heavy with dew to begin
of a sun too weary to start again
of a moon too proud to dip
below my horizons

that i walked away
left my scar
of an unrequited kiss
upon the skin of the earth.

the hardest lesson i ever learned
was how deep to dig a grave
for a memory turned corpse.

you never told me you needed me
just lists of other things deserving your attention.
your dreams were what was most important to you
and i can't say i blame you.

people are fault ridden creatures
after all.

i don't get lonely anymore.
the stench of coffee
and the staggered breath
of the same old records
keeps me.

my only frustration is that the music was too short
the dreams too painful
the quiet too loud.

the space between tracks is where i live
that repeating abyss you can't ignore
as you await the next song
hoping it will take you from this place.

it's odd how we never think anything of the silence
until it blankets us
and is the only thing left to talk about.

emotions are just like sand.
always fleeting,
always shifting.

not quite whole
but
wholly individual

and flitting through
our fingers before
we can fully
grasp them.

i pressed my fingers to the pane
to feel the heartbeat of the rain

i wanted to see if the pitter-patter pulse
would match the patchwork pace of mine

and maybe if it did, i would be kept warm
with thoughts that even the clouds knew my name

and maybe if it didn't, i could at least take comfort
knowing that even god herself couldn't paint my fingertips.

your gift was always
the simple things.

all the unplanned clichés.

you remember.
those kisses in the rain
whispers meant for ears of lovers
the late-night walks to nowhere.

i can never forget
those ******* clichés
or how they seemed
so original to me.

maybe it was love, maybe it still is.
maybe that's all love is, or all it was.

(thoughts like these
tend to complicate
the pains of a poet)

though our time was just an inhalation
of adolescent affection,
i still see your smile in the rings
of my coffee.

i still feel your fingertips
between the hair of the trees.

i still have some of your gifts.

you remember.
pressed flowers
goosebumps
scars of gentle kisses.

i won't forget
that your gift was always
the simple things.