Death has transformed my ghosts into thoughtful gentlemen.
They insist we wander from my obligation to misplaced guilt
And the cold carcass of whateverthisrelationship was.

Two of them take me by hand. The third trails behind,
Carrying my laced veil of sorrow,
Preventing my tumble into a coil of aged anxiety.

We walk for some time,
Strolling a pathway filled with memories and lost love.
The route is familiar, but each step weighs on my soul.

I grow tired maneuvering the course terrain.
The ghost bearing my veil of sorrow takes me into his arms,
Comfort.

The other two take place their place before and behind us:
Predictability and Reassurance.
I fall asleep to the steady pace of Comfort.

I awake in a meadow of Indian paintbrush.
Vivid colors are masked by sleepy shadows
while stars descend in the form of tranquil snowflakes.

Wakefulness is an illusory dream.
My ghosts take turns recounting fond memories
That both warm and sting my hands.

Ghosts are ghosts because they're only ever half-present,
Fluctuating between present and departed.
Their presence is transient and perpetual.

But there's a certain security in knowing
My ghosts are dependable enough to find me
When daylight turns to
                                           nightmare.

The walls are bare
And the heart of whateverthisreleationship
Is (...was?) lays inches from death on the tile floor.

Each pulse is exaggerated
And
          intermittent.

It feels profane to place blame on something that's dying.
But Heart is the December freeze creeping through the screen door
And I'm tired of being cold.

The artificial sunlight in this room was blinding.
Fake daylight is a mockery here, and I don't care for pretenses.
Darkness better suits this occasion.

As the filament in the bulb sighed its last breath of light,
My sympathetic ghosts leaned in to hush my tears.
They now sing warm lullabies that feel like contradictions:

How odd that they're the ones here to comfort me
While you're so

                             distant.

I live in a world where "you're perfect" means "but not for me"
And where being "too much" is somehow not enough.

Maybe it's been written
somewhere in the constitution
     of the waning moon

                                         ― When somebody loves you,
                                               you can never be lonely ―

But, appearances
  to the contrary,
the moon is sometimes blue;

counting stars alone
in a sky full of stars
is just about as lonely
as 'once in a blue moon'
                              can be ―

Like when the night is yours alone
                  or feeling alone
               in a crowded room

hearing Hank Williams moan within your silence
       "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"

                                         ― When it's hard to say
                                               you love someone,..
                                               but it's harder to say
                                               when you don't ―

                • • •

A coyote's pleading howl
breaks the silent twilight engulfing trance
cast by the dappled moonlight;
like there's some kind of lonely madness
    swallowing him whole,..

                     as
    these two hollow eyes
                 gaze out through
                                     the chilly,
                                            sobering
                                                 refreshed
                                                   Autumn air
                                                             ­    spilling
                                                                ­  in through
                                                            the open window,

                                                        ­           counting stars ― alone
                                                           ­             in a sky full of stars

                                                       ­             the crackle of the fireplace
                                                       ­            echoes, startling the silence
                                                         ­                of a feigned warmth
                                                                ­          from the other side
                                                                ­ of an otherwise hollow room

and i feel frayed as a hole in an empty pocket with nothing left to lose

the impending dark winter nights are lonesome
            and  linger longer than before ...
  
seeing the empty space beside me
   I remember how it really really aches to just be ...

                                                            *­lonesome as a blue moon ― *

✩                   ✩                        ✩                                       ­ 
                ✩                   ✩                    ✩                           
✩          ­                                                      ✩
         ­                                                                 ­                                 ☽

moonless ― rivers ... 2017

This heart isn't home anymore.
The numbers on the mailbox are faded and curling,
Destination undetermined.
The people and places in the photographs are foreign,
Yet they point at me in my cell of isolation and cast stones.
The suffocation of the warmth
Constantly battles the harshness of the cold.
Neither ever wins,
But I'm always caught in the crossfire.
The other day,
I hurled a ray-less lamp at the window
And called for a legion of pigeons
To carry my breathless cry for miles.
Fifty messages went out.
Only one returned:

my dear,
i'll be seeing you.

If I tell you I love you,
Does that mean I get to keep you?
Or does it mean you are now the owner
Of a sharp piece of information
You may decide to stab me with later?
If you are
Ever so inclined
To tell me you love me back,
Does that mean you’re always going to feel that way,
Or is it conditional on the present moment
And you could possibly change your mind
Six months down the road
And return my heart - battered?
Furthermore,
What does love even mean?
Because when I say I love you,
I mean that I want to be with you until the day I die
And every day thereafter. (Not to be dramatic).
When I say I love you,
I mean that I will be a solid, yet cozy, foundation for you.
I mean that I want to cuddle and drink pero with you every night.
I mean that I want to fall asleep in your arms and wake up next to you in the morning
Even though your hair may be parted down the middle.
I mean that every second, my mind is housing the thought of you
The thought, just an empty copy that my mind supplies in your absence.
I want the real you.
When I say I love you,
I mean that I like you. A lot. Always.
I mean that I will watch the World Series with you and your brother every year
(even though I've never before cared about the Red Sox)
I mean that I hope you’re having a great day
But I also mean that I miss you and that I hope you’re missing me as much as I'm missing you.
When I say I love you,
I mean the very thought of loving you makes me wish I never met you at all,
Because a world in which your eyes don’t smile at me is not a world,
But a nightmare
That sends my heart racing
Eyes crying
Heart bleeding
Soul dying. So
When I tell you I love you
Please.
Tell me you love me too.

i am a never-ending spiral of missing you.
in dreams i find myself in your presence,
these dreams turn to nightmares as reality is your absence.

i breathe in the air, and it smells like the autumn we spent together-
hauntingly warm and beautiful.
it smells like sunlight and leaves and happiness.
each inhale brings your memory closer,
each exhale pushes you further.

every white car I see is your Subaru.
the one that took us to the yellowing aspens.
every song has your jazz.
i could only listen to mumford and sons for three months.
every second is the absence of your embrace.

i know you're gone.
i KNOW.
i see your pictures with her
and i can see you're happy.
you have all of my happiness. you really do.

i have no consolation. no time. none at all.
never-never.