Proud son,
With just a little winter
In his bones

I think perhaps our first was not at the beginning.  You crept down my throat and settled there.  

You tasted my words before I did myself, the acidity rooted strongly in liquid letters.  

I fell asleep with a river of thought pouring from my eyes and onto your skin without realizing what you were to take.  

Not me seriously, in any case.

Our first was a whisky kick

***** in someone’s bath

A screaming silence

I, game player and you, changer.  You had ringed your wrists in neon colours and anchored them to my lips.  

Bind my breath to your cells so that I will know what I look like, to you.  

You are in love with the idea of being in love,

Dear someone.

I have written countless poems.

I have buried you in the open space

Between every M and P

So that every ‘oh’ sounds off,

onomatopoeiaic.  Our last was your realization as I came to terms with our first.  The same.  You are listening to music again.  You are falling asleep again.  You are silent,

Again.

I am counting my fingers to tell how many muscles I will exert to let you know.  It is not that I confine to syllables but that they are confining me.  It is not mystery I strive for.  

Dear someone,

Our first was our only

Our last, not so

Dear someone,

I do not love you—

I am not sorry

They’re coming for you – human tendencies

On their mind




You matched your smile to my voice

—

          And I whispered into the walls




A room full of bodies, who’s souls were yours

But not your own




They watch through glass lens

As I watched anything other than

Your eyes




Their movements were yours,

And in the hollows of night

They shed skin, alighting into skies of

Your voice




Had you heard me breathing words

—

          Before?




They have — they are.  Perhaps your ghost

Is the shape

The moon takes when I try to hold it

And



This





          Distance

Is my heart from my head




When they reach you, open your

Ink stained arms, welcome loudest

And swallow them whole




We will not be

—

          But those moments captured and

Replayed

Betray lips we share




As we cling to the debris

Of others

He ghosts through apartments long after three in the morning
Tracking in the residue of his night time wanderings through dreams
Curtains lift in the wake of his storm and rest on bare shoulders,
Life signs;
The figments and fragments of a hurricane he breathes.

Through open windows he leans, his soul reaching surface
Drawing moonlight into his skin, illuminating the ice he carries,
A chest cavity full of crystals and rainbow light
Breathing in shades of heated silver.

He has found a place for his bones to lie down and sleep, wrapped up tight
Spiders web to sew together and daisy chains round veins
His limbs - will become trees
I stand below, blinking upwards as he takes root and grows,
Resting burdens in the air

I - am a foolish, fragile spine and wake when he does
Passing time, holding up more than is my own as I try
To take him from himself,
Even if I’m buckling beneath these unspoken

I have watched him appear, as a flower
Hiding secrets amongst himself and blooming long enough
In Spring, baring bones
To prove he is more beautiful than this drained, scar-riddled skin

These, he says, are his strength, and that the skeleton forcing outwards
Is the truth.  For when we die, and lie buried
We will have his face

Setting fire to his insides for fun he catches his tears in hands
Allowing wounds to grow, and through translucent skin
His screams show, throwing themselves against ribs
So as not to fly free of throat

He breathes in smoke, blackened lungs straining, dry
As he drowns in himself.

He leaves,

His shadow whispering across my skin as I watch, breathing silent as
His pleas.

I – am a foolish, fragile spine, trying to take him from himself
I – lie bent and broken, life passing and I remain on the roadside,
Safely tucked away.
I have travelled through my days as if they are
Losing themselves.  Marvelling at what he has grown into as he
Reaches for the skies.  I have walked trails instead of stretching,
Standing straight, growing tall as he

Try save him from

His – is a flower, grown and withered, seeping into earth
Six foot deep.  His – is a tree among many, his years marked out
In rings.  His – staying rooted and breathing life from life he does not feel and

I – am setting forest fires

There’s a lot to be said
For silences.

Spaces open up between heartbeats.
I’m throwing my words against barriers.
Bouncing from Mandible to Maxillary
And retreating back to vocal chords
Rubbed raw by screams.

I have been trying to tell you
That what I have to say is not
What you think.

But pulling teeth apart feels like
Tearing flowers from their beds-
Their petals from their stems-
And discarding them beneath feet
Anyway.

I have been trying to stay silent.
For what I have to say is not
What you think.

I can no longer tell if it is
A lack of things to utter, or too many.
But each contained within throat
Rattles against breath
And how you cannot hear, I
Know not.

They scream louder than
A pounding heart
And at times that echoes, unbidden.
I think they each race the other,
Tempted with reaching ears-

Does the head win,
Or the heart?

I could lead from silence to sound,
Or elsewise
And still feel confined
To passages of speech.
Monologues ringing off instead of
Dialogue.

Confined to self, and always
Yearning
To touch you

We’ve been taught that
Actions speak louder than words,
And I travel with back steps
Hoping –

Perhaps silence will sound loudest

Of course

I still remember.

Don’t -

Don’t start on that thread,

unraveling every word and

stop the colours spreading.

I don’t want to think,

End up like you, sinking too quickly beneath waves my every movement sends crashing

Against the shores.

I let them reach heights to

tower over your own

As if no prove -

No, not insignificant.

Nothing less than.

I haven’t ******* forgotten, can you please remember that?

You’ve tied yourself

too tightly

to your words - and their’s

and this is not like

you have always dreamed.

Lost - myself.

The wind is calling.

And that woman stands

dangerously close

and she could/I could.

Jump:

Right over and away, twist for show and gaze upon horrified faces.

Terror at what is me, leaving what is not

and what you are trying to keep.

But I have not forgotten

I have not-

Me-

This me-

Not who you reach towards not you not us

not

maybe.

I cannot forget what is not there and so-

Remember

I’ve filled my room with
dream catchers
So you can twist and turn
from mind
And I’ll still have pieces
come morning