Hold me close and assure me that everything I perceive is real
Better yet- convince me that nothing is
That everything ceases to exist when I close my eyes- the world shatters, disintegrates, scatters- and reforms when again they open

They were her hands,
Destined for pleasure.
Fingers tied knots
Ringed with gold,
And pointed the way
For growing old.

Palms held petals,
Bows, ribbons
And pages;
Wrists watched
The measured time
Of keys and games;
Wrapped packaged treasures,
Opened doors.

They were small
Determined hands,
Covered in flour
White skin
Powdering her face,
Inviting
Me in.

Hands held in supplication,
Joy and despair;
Hands in need
Of salvation.

Like leaves on
Autumn branches
That branches
Can't hold,
Her hands
Lost their grip,
Then closed
And fell cold.

I'm sorry courage took a longer time for your hair to grow out past your shoulders

Maybe I regret the coveted gazes that took residence in the threads of your muscles now precinct, hardly noticed nor remembered

You're the seventh page of my diary, as well as the eighth, the ninth, the tenth and it goes on till the edge of this cliff you call home

There are things I don't know why I do

Like the time I gave myself bruises on my shins just because I liked the colour

Has anyone ever thought of how bruises are actually a metaphor of everything unsaid?

Capillaries bursting under the surface of your skin and not flowing, like the words that ride in submarines in your head but never brave enough to say them out loud

Things sound nicer when they come from your lips anyway.

I laugh too much

Is the passion carved on your skull as deep and carefully thought out as the things you say?

Warmth from you is as untrue and synthetic as your boxing gloves strapped tightly on

Punches with the soul of death, you pretend your stares are empty

I’ve watched sunsets more times than I have seen your smile

The darkness that swallows the harbor isn’t something we’d talk about over steaming cups of coffee

I don’t drink coffee anyway

I heard you make lovely icy rainbow popsicles and hand them out at barbecues

But nothing’s colder than your hard gaze, as hard as your cheekbones

I wish you’d grow your hair mid-back so you can finally braid it

I am not so sure what waiting is supposed to do except breed hope and a whole lot of misery

Silhouettes are me and you and everything intangible, just like me and you and black and white, just like me and you

I am in love with you but I do not love you.

Today will not be the same as yesterday as much as you'd like it to be
I finally learnt to remember the image of deserts etched across your knee
Yearning is a cheat; it weaves into clocks and watches pretending to be time
And I know that when it comes to us coincidence might resign

You let the city in your lungs collapse under this emptiness that’s your earthquake
I hope you refuse to smile if it isn't for my sake
I wish for the days to be gone that are you and your concrete frowns
For now I only wish to see you safe and sound
I will caress your white shirt soaked in mud
If you promise to stop jumping off buildings, staining the parapet with your blood

And so we depend on borrowed feelings
Don’t you think that remorse is time worth ticking?
For me, it skims across lined pages
And for you, it settles back into rusted battle cages

Truly, it’s another one of those questions your tongue holds no answer
I am familiar with the way desperation forces you to bite into inked rubber
I've been scratching spirals into wooden floorings
In an effort to take the pain out of waiting

And if you look up, the shadows are holding out their hands
You turn to me, your face contorted in the strain of trying to understand
I cannot bring myself to smile because confusion lies in everyone
They’re whispering your name; they’re pulling us into oblivion

There's a pinprick on each of your knuckles on one hand and I think I can hear you say they're for weekdays of guilt.

You're saying you'll scratch out "sorry" on your palm and press it on everything you own so the blood stains leave their mark.

You think the world is much easier to live in if you don't have to apologize with your lips.

“Don’t take too many pictures of the same thing,” you snapped once but it was only because you wanted them to see the sky turn from pink to orange for themselves and not on glossy paper. It was almost like you were saying sorry to the sky.

You watched something funny once and I remember you kneeling over with your face in the carpet. I thought you were laughing until you refused to get up hours later and I saw tears seeping through the fabric and realized you were begging on your knees.

You stand by the glass window, your eyelashes catching the light with your eyes downcast. You do that every time you think you cannot tell the difference between being ruthless and pretending you don’t care.

I remember the day you stood across and finally looked right at me with your black eyes and your gritted teeth, your breath steadied in patterned gulps, your hands hanging down the sides of your hips.

Your biggest apology was this stone cold silence.

Those things these hands have held
gently -textured care-
tactile curiosities
life's measure

A small, blue bird's egg
broken -sadly-
mocking nature's symmetry

Ice
cold -cold-
water making shape

A stone arrow point
sharp still -old-
black as death

My mother's hand
warm -caring-
now long gone

A small dog
wiggling -happy-
nipping, licking fingers

A woman
smooth -soft-
curving heat

My son
my son, my son -my son-
now grown, love unmeasurable

A coin
gold -only-
worth little

Those things these hands have held
measured -treasured-
memorized
lifelines.

r ~ 8/12/14

a crumpled milk carton
discarded...fallen
in the gutter, another
black and white photograph

a tooth fairy smile-
something missing,..

a coldness
from the shuttered window
in the shadows
of a quiet day
...Xavier doesn't play here anymore.

r ~ 8/17/14