I’ll open the door before you knock
barefoot
heart lit
shaking
I’ll kiss your mouth before you speak
not to quiet you
but to show you
what language was always
reaching for

I've spent my morning on adjectives,
trying kindly to describe her. I couldn't make them fit. I'd lost the joy in remembering us & saw under my eyes what difference the kitchen floor made. Quite sad a way to look at something so beautiful. One heartbreak away from holiness, I'm afraid I've forgotten how to long for something. I found metaphors under the rocks I'd grown too large to hide under and sometimes it's just worth digging in dirt to find the proper use of my indignance. My not-so-subtle search for dignity. & after all the cigarettes and kicking, I made my coffee and a vow to myself. That I would leave my bones where they were from now on. That I was a woman, full of blood and empathy and feeling sorry for myself was useless. That I hadn't fallen in love after all. I'd leglessly tripped face first  & from now on, I was going to watch where I stepped.

We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes as the sun rose.
We spoke in philosophical rhymes, unaware of the passage of time.
I realize now that the love we had is lost.
You reach for me, but I am a phantom. Long ago, I stopped reaching back.
Still, what we had—the raw and unearthly attraction, the bond forged between our two souls—is unlike anything I’ve ever known.
I will be alone until love strikes my heart like it once did.
I want a love that burns me to ash and then resurrects itself from the remnants.
I want a love that bleeds, gives, and never makes me question my worth.
If I can’t have that, I am content with nothing at all.

-Rhia Clay

A dead chicken
on the sidewalk,
embers—little bits
of  burning paper

drifting in the
air, a man asleep
in a king-size
bed in an empty

warehouse, a “she
done me wrong”
song with a slow
cha-cha rhythm

playing somewhere
distant, and no one
there to talk to, and
no where to go, and
no way to get there.