it's cold in the gut, like
that first time you had to throw
a sea robin back, even after
the hook had reached through his
left eye. cold like the flapping
of blackfish in a bush asphyxiating,
as i have all day. if dying as a
fish were so easy, oh how i'd love
to jump from the caves of anchorage
into the pacific; how ironic, an iron
islander on your brittle coast.
sometimes the way you hold your spliff makes
milk come out the bottom and i love to
watch it dance around your bottom lip.
i can't bring myself to scan the past, the
beads falling to my cheek refuse to
move, even in my highest doses.
sleeping without you,
it's free and slow but it's also 6am.
and what do i really want? with freedom?
with comfort? forgiveness wraps her white
chiffon around my breast, heart vibrating, but
the horns on my temples take it away.
those old relics, the constant frontal pyramids,
they rip everything open without my permission
and yet they hold the fire through which i thrive.
if you were here you would say, do not
take the seroquel. i listen even in your void.
sleeping without you,
it's a crater in my back, right now i
don't want you back but —imagine!
i wail right away when i see your
frown in my third eye, where would my
anchor be and how would you find sails?
and your hair, would it darken from
missing my fingertips? and my waist,
would it harden if you did not open its
harbors? and what about our hands?
the magnets in the lines of our palms,
they will probably tie cords to each
other until a loss of frequency.
most importantly, what would the
stars think? would they form the same angles
or would the earth be forced to move backwards?
sleeping without you,
i'm so enraged, but please don't
make me do it. you are not an ocean,
you're a fjord. glacial ice irises, a
buffer for the north sea's calamities, a
singular and diverse habitat. if i could no
longer rest my head on those whisper
waves, i'd stare at my palms all day,
i'd wait until they found your lifeline.