Over Christmas
I was fine:
my grief’s appetite suppressed,
a comatose beast of tumultuous emotions,
for once, not ready to strike at the smallest
hush
whisper
smile
look.
No fits of rage,
no bouts of nausea.

But my beast slumbers only when
you’re not there
to beckon it,

and when your laugh doesn’t echo
through empty hallways,
and your little bubbles of conversation
with my best friends,
waking it with a bucket of hot coals,

or when I don’t have to dwell on
how your smile plays
hide-and-go-seek:
a fickle creature that desires not to face me
on a daily schedule,
mine is ready to strike at any moment.

For when I was “home”
in my mere shell of reality,
with nothing but numbness
& ignorance of your existence
to patch up the holes
in the tattered quilt of “us,”
if only for three weeks,
you weren’t there.

But now that I’m back and you’re back,
that hunger awakens deep in my gut.
It bleeds,
it scrapes.
My beast longs to devour
a portion of my peace,
hour by hour.
And with each passing
look of your eyes in my eyes,
fear in yours & a transparent loathing shield in mine,
I am nearly crumbled
in defeat.

Movement One—The Death of the Day

I brought you to my quiet place,
where love and weeds bloom
on the hillside, a steep, steep place;
much better for rolling down
than looking up.

We closed our eyes,
those sweet, subtle sounds
whispering in our ears
while my fingertips scream,
aching to connect with yours.

And I wait
for you to be brave
and reach out to me
in this moment of openness
and fear of regret.
But you stay
still.

I yearn for you to feel the way I feel;
to say what I want you to say,
but you say     .
(nothing)
You leave my hands cold,
my hopes futile.

Movement Two—The Arson

But what you do,
you do with no apprehension:
you leap onto me,
a lion onto a waiting gazelle,
your hands ravenous for my flesh.

My lips have no chance to speak
as the spark they once held is extinguished
by your own cruel, white flames.

I can hear the smothering of my bones,
the last gasps of my heartbeat
as you pin me to the grass and burrs,
my hair entangled in my mistake.
My skin is the only thing that can speak,
as bruises begin to whisper
the evidence of my demise.

And I cannot lock the gates
as you stampede over my body,
tearing buttons, stretching fabrics,
and I hurt so much
but am stuck in the quicksand of silence.

Movement Three—The Rebellion

Why were you so kind?
Why did you convince me you were different?
That I was interesting,
that you don’t treat girls
THIS WAY.

I throw your impudence in your face
with my words,
without silence.
With my dignity,
without hate.

Movement Four—Like Air

Number 12, you were so fair.
Number 12, you did not break me.
Number 12, I am no ashes.
Number 12, I swallow you whole.

In this room,
a quiet room,
my dear friend
plays the piano
(he sighs into the ivory keys;
his fingers urgently pushing them
to their limits.)
                                  &
tunes his voice.
             (“I’m gonna make a lot
              of weird noises,” he says,
      aahhh,
        aahhahaaahh
                       ­ &trills.;
              Up to the ceiling, his voice goes.)

He pushes&pushes;&pushes;
his voice,
echoes&echoes;,
his eyes,
              closed.

A smile
peeks out through the syllables caught in his cheeks
while his feet aimlessly step upon those three little pedals,
as if he’d just been doing
the daily commute to and from work.

I sit on the floor,
a floor dusted with the footsteps of ***** shoes and
the result of lonely instruments.

I listen.

After he reaches that high C,
I look up at him and smile
and he looks down and smiles
and for a moment,
all of the pains I had
before I knocked on his door
dissipate into the air,
as beauty radiates in the room
in the form of eighth & quarter notes,
Italian & French,
aaahs & the silence of
            peace.

it is autumn,
& a village is planning for
the Reaping:

                                        [the rustling of the wind as it whips through the leaves
                                        on a foggy, weaving, narrow street
                                        the faint hum of a chorus singing tunes of change,
                                        & a whisper of mischief amidst the trees & the rain.]

in a nearby village, women stand out on their porches,
waiting for news of the weather & harvest
while beasts curl & snap from the fire that warms
men with hands bloodied from the day’s hunted.

but when supper tables are barren & apron strings lengthen
on the women who pour over & onto their families,
men will tell fables & children sing carols
so the hunger pains & hopeless tears will cease.

so while some offer prayers to the God who giveth
& others grow cold in their anguish,
some witches gather in secret among cedars & birches
in attempt to tempt fate with their voices.

they sing:
seven handfuls of crunched leaves &
     seven nights of lucid dreams—
five pumpkin faces to carve grins into &
     five conversations to break hearts in two—
three dances around the fireside &
     three a.m. cold sweats in which to writhe—
one harvest moon to stand beneath &
     one soul for whom I ever weep.
                                      & while the weak are consumed with the thoughts in their heads,
                                      we clamor for life, chanting spells of the dead.

so when the blacksmith’s daughter hears a song from the woods,
raven hair aloft in the breeze,
she asks but one question: to whom shall I go?
& her boots beat a path toward the trees.

Ages ago I asked a dreamer
(A feeler and a magician, as well) 
What love looked like on the inside
When those who are in it cannot tell

If it's tough enough, strong enough, red enough
(And of course, to be honest, is it true)
So that, if possible, we can avoid any pain
And the mistakes and the whatifs, too.

He told me:
It appears like a rainforest drizzle,
Somewhat expected, though still a blessing,
And its term is always indiscernible
Though in its haze, we still dance and sing.

And I said:
And what of the broken hearts,
Those who thought what they held was good:
They felt true things, they saw true light,
But they lost it all in the woods. 

He said: 
What they had was worthy and fine,
Though it seemed to bring nothing but pain, 
For a shower can bring both cleansing and fire:
And we call it acid rain.

So I say:
Why question the love you are given?
Trying to name it, excuse it, or worse-
Instead, let it pass over you like a rainstorm,
Whether it floods, or if it's your first.

Breathe in the scent and inebriation,
Drown yourself in petrichor.
For when love hits you, it hits you hard,
And when it rains, it pours.

an element of light slips though the cracks
in this worn, beaten mast
with its aching floorboards & my
creaking starboard heart.
& the wind whips through the sails
just as my aching soul ails
for the same vicissitude--
though it is caught in this sea of stagnancy.
--
this ship:
it asks for weather,
it pleads for the storm,
if only in attempt to be washed ashore.
[something new, something unexplored.]
lo, but it is caught in this mesmerizing estuary,
entangled in the tides of your sea,
& in all the efforts I make to escape from your deep,
I always feel as though I’m swimming upstream.

(I sometimes shake my memories
when they find themselves twisted
& highly vivid)*

this way—
no that;
I want to remember the way
your hair felt entwined in my hungry fingers—

you were sitting there beneath the tree under which I had grown for nearly 1500 days,
but you had taught me more than all of those years
in just two fortnights’ time.

I remember how chilled your face felt—
how the evening looked so good on you
(you always had such sad eyes, you know,
& the moonlight fed them in ways you never realized you hungered for).
I was there for a day or so,
just enough for me to trip (& fall),
just enough for you to push me over the edge.

I don’t quite know what brought us there that night,
halfway between you wanting to go home
& me never wanting to leave your side,
but I held my hand on your face, in your hair,
waiting with all certainty that you would wrap your arms around my waist,
drawing me in to let me
breathe you in.

(how sad I was to have such faith,
& how sad you were to have none at all.)

these days, you’ve cut your hair
(perhaps the memories of my lingering fingers weighed you down,
a blanket too warm for the season),
& I don’t even recognize your casual howareyous
(the ones that used to keep me up at night & early into the Texas sunrises;
do you remember those, too?).
no—
instead I see them for what they are:
casual.

so as I lay here in lace & nostalgia,
in the very place we once whispered our desires to each other,
& my hands so heavy with all the things I’ve gathered for our next conversation,
I will instead empty my palms, and,
like you,
release what burdens so heavily.

--jonah’s Lot
gravel-stricken streets & gaslit lampposts;
I close my eyes to take it all in—
this new solitude I’ve found to host.

a sacred sort of song I sing--
[oh, how does it feel to be alone?]--
though still wrapped in Love to ward off the sting.

& though I feel strong in my shield of Stone,
I cannot help but turn back in slight,
& a saltiness creeps up from my anklebones.

--at the dock of the bay.
in the distance you shine with your Father’s glow,
a smile&touch; I have longed for since that June long ago,
& the knot in my stomach continues to grow.

greatness I see as your eyes blink to me
when the smoke billows between our twin heartstrings,
though Ben strikes that it’s time to be free.

so though my travels lead me in opposition to hellos,
you are loved, Eternally Loved,
is what I have always said & have always wanted you to know.

--a fisherman’s courage
His mast is rising & His sails are billowing &
I step out on the dock, reluctant,
then the sunset pours through the Captain’s hand.

“child, you know what you truly seek,
among the waves you’ve yearned&desired; a storm detour,
when I was the one in control of this Sea.”

He reaches out to pull me in,
“you’ve always been free to walk on water,”
& that first step resonates like an eternal din.

--resolve&glory;
*I depart in peace & with all the contentment I have discovered
[that I have found, that I have found],
& all I ever had to do was cling to the Anchor.

please—
don’t worry;
about the feelings you cannot quite muster
or the actions you cannot quite accomplish—
for simply having you here
would suffice.

[for it is not always the ocean
or the waves themselves that bring peace,
indeed—
sometimes, simply a scent of sea air
can be enough
to put one at ease.]

and do not ask
why I wait at the window,
on this blustery winter night,
candles flickering in the den,
flames snapping in the fireplace,
pots sizzling on the stove—

instead,
inquire as to how long I will wait
until you sweep in with snow sleeping on your eyelashes,
the zephyr of the west still singing in your ears,
an exhausted smile of bruised hope dancing with your dimpled cheeks—
for yes,
oh yes,
I am still here,
waiting.

please, do not worry,
for the night is young,
the stove will keep warm,
and if I sleep, I will wake at the door—
for I will greet you with blankets wrapped around my shoulders
in which to bring you warmth,
and my toes will stretch to allow me to hold you closer,
but my words will truly bring you in from the cold:
have peace, for all is well, my love.
all is well with our souls.

[and the snowflakes will melt into tears of joy.]

Something happened when
I finally allowed myself
to permit you
to see me.

Those eyes of yours, brimming pools,
reached so far deep into my being,
drawing out emotions and thoughts I was afraid to ever show you.
Your nose just breathing space away from mine,
a breath caught in your chest;
It happened—
I let you in.

And I think you recognized it,
for that gleam in your eye let me know
that you’re in it, too.

This is but a bittersweet, diminished thing that we both hold onto,
even after the time when tears filled our eyes.

We’ll never let go, you and I.

“I want to remember you like this,” you said, as you looked at me through fogging lenses.*

And I, you, like this.

It was in that moment we allowed ourselves to gaze upon
a last tattering photograph of when we were whole.
One last kiss,
one last woven catalyst of fingers,
and I held your face in my hands
and whispered, “You are incredible.”

But we just couldn’t be.

but my still, heavily-beating heart

just longs for a little more—

unsatisfied

with what is graciously given.

and yet-

appeased by things all too simple

not to enjoy.

where my cravings lie,

my assuagement lie elsewhere—

in Your word &

in Your people.

so as I sit & wait for the

signal Lights to beckon,

a sojourner among its radiance,

I will instead turn to meet the Bridegroom

who tarries for me

at the other end of the ocean.

bushes,
you've beaten about them &
smoke,
you've blown--

you've circled your fist a few times to get to your
thumb &
you've tiptoed around&around;&around--;

[stutters&wells;&whatdoYOUthinks;&um;/um/umms--]

but the answer is still in the mist
of unnecessary cocktails &
dawdling moments,
misplaced emotions--

I'm just as confused as you,
& the mixtapes you've made
just won't do
this time--

because music can speak louder than words,
[if your words cannot be found in the first place];
but you've been searching for them
half as long as you've been searching for something else--

--that is--
                                                            ­                              --yourself.

**for just because I have found you,
doesn't mean that you have just yet.