I drew lines between us
When I chose to draw lines
Across my skin*

But what I can’t say out loud

The words that are stuck,
Pitted in my chest
Which sometimes make it hard to breathe

What I’ve been desperate to tell you
Is:

*I’d rather see cracks in my skin
Than feel holes in my heart.

whether or not we fall asleep in your bed
won't cure nor break this
but how sweet it would be
to share the sheets, rest our minds, quicken our hearts
because it's safer to be tucked away
unscrutinised
the ceiling sees us, we see each other
it all feels right
as we sleep questionless and answerless

-cj

i wish i was a person
that dreamed of being a child again.
i'm sure they have sweet memories of days at the park
or trips to the museum.
but the only place i remember visiting was
the liquor store.
after my father was sold his daily bottle of poison,
i was given a timid smile and a lollipop
oh how sweet memories can be.

I watch as the already exhaled smoke floats in front of me
Dancing decievingly
Convincing me it isn't leaving.
Unfortunately I've convinced myself the same
The smoke fades nearly unnoticed

See, I'm not a fool & I'm far too observant not to notice
Although not foolish, I foolishly believe the smoke will stay
And as the smoke drifts about I notice my own pattern...

I always convince myself that when its practically impossible, something or someone will stay. Just like this cigarette,  this pattern is killing me. slowly
The smoke finally disappears into the crisp air
**This time I sigh in relief

Whoever has no house now will never have one.
    Whoever is alone will stay alone
    Will sit, read, write long letters through the evening
    And wander on the boulevards, up and down...

  - from Autumn Day, Rainer Maria Rilke


Its stain is everywhere.
The sharpening air
of late afternoon
is now the colour of tea.
Once-glycerined green leaves
burned by a summer sun
are brittle and ochre.
Night enters day like a thief.
And children fear that the beautiful daylight has gone.
Whoever has no house now will never have one.

It is the best and the worst time.
Around a fire, everyone laughing,
brocaded curtains drawn,
nowhere-anywhere-is more safe than here.
The whole world is a cup
one could hold in one's hand like a stone
warmed by that same summer sun.
But the dead or the near dead
are now all knucklebone.
Whoever is alone will stay alone.

Nothing to do. Nothing to really do.
Toast and tea are nothing.
Kettle boils dry.
Shut the night out or let it in,
it is a cat on the wrong side of the door
whichever side it is on. A black thing
with its implacable face.
To avoid it you
will tell yourself you are something,
will sit, read, write long letters through the evening.

Even though there is bounty, a full harvest
that sharp sweetness in the tea-stained air
is reserved for those who have made a straw
fine as a hair to **** it through-
fine as a golden hair.
Wearing a smile or a frown
God's face is always there.
It is up to you
if you take your wintry restlessness into the town
and wander on the boulevards, up and down.

I will love you,
But be warned,
It will stain