there's a quick blink of a conversation
and no one thinks anything of it
but it's years of confusion put to rest.
it's disregarding the location of anger
and the misinterpretation
of countless tapping fingers.
a few days ago the trees raised up
outside my bedroom window
and for a moment i felt like flying.
its a cold calm realization
when everything is temporary.
i'm adjusting - from flinging madness
and having something stay,
to keeping this pending,
keeping the books open,
holding out for rambling
while trying to fill the silence.

a being disconnected is not simply glowing
it's burning from within and radiating sound
the gorgeous flames are untouchable
you're sitting at a distance just to pretend
the gold and charm is crawling under your skin
then later on when the sun is setting
you can go back to the shadowed room
and when you need it the light will go off
the crackling fire won't keep you awake
if you keep the beautiful tragedy far enough away
the flames won't choke you in your sleep
leaving you in the morning
with a beam of sunlight on your cheek
while your hand is quivering from the cold

there was something that painted the image too well
the image of a gray damp basement
and you sitting on an old arm chair
as you let the smoke surround you
the smoke so many say will heal

so you let it all sink in
the smoke into your skin
you can feel your hands start to go numb
and you've heard this could bring panic
you've heard this too many times
it's almost as if it's one of the reasons you started
and one of the reasons you keep doing it
as if maybe the next time this happened
you could blame it on some substance
and convince yourself for 10-15 minutes
that you were really okay

it's all too easy to forget

to forget about the color of the clouds mixed with blue
to forget about how important fruit can taste
to forget the sound of your voice
the sound of any voice

you're blocking out the sound of the alarm clock
you're convincing the sun to let you be
you've convinced this of almost everyone
with the rise of blood pressure and a rising tone
there wasn't much convincing to do in the first place
with almost a snap of your fingers
and a slip of the wrist
they've all leave the room and ask,
"what's wrong with them?"

they don't know that they're just another reason
for black nights
or red mornings
with a haze
afternoons with too many cups of coffee
because again
you're trying to give yourself an excuse
anything else to blame for quivering hands
anything else
besides
a lack of attention
a lack of affection
taking yourself seriously
letting yourself
be taken seriously
to accept
the off putting sighs
and to try
to keep trying

we're at stage one:

you say, "the light
is hurting my eyes
now more than ever."

i squeeze your hand
in mine and whisper,
"let's make it worse
together." you take a breath
so deep it rattles
the entire
room.

i can't see past
four years ago, but your eyes
are closer to mine
than i've ever felt them before.

i can feel your heart
in your ribs, knowing
it used to be higher.

i tell you that i had a dream
the other night
about us falling apart,
about you
losing your lungs,
losing your mind,
feeling worse
than i ever could, and
letting a missing love
lead you
to the glistening
dark
blue stones.

it’s only 10pm in fact not even 10pm
i’ve been home for the day the evening the night
i had to leave work early at 1:30pm because i couldn’t do it
i don’t even know what it was
but i couldn’t do it
i couldn’t talk to anyone
i couldn’t talk to you
i couldn’t think straight or focus or even write out my name
what is the point of all your confusion all your pondering
keeps lifting me higher, lifting me higher
and nonsense songs play in the background
i’m not even sure i know where i am anymore, anyone
out there i gave a confession
something you didn’t need to know
something you wish you didn’t know
stop popping balloons before they’re blown
stop popping balloons before they’re blown
stop googling “saddest movies” whenever you’re bored
stop looking at lists online that might as well be titled “don’t watch this”
but you do anyway
you will always anyway
what does it mean when your only goal is to have your fingers go numb
to have your vision start to blur
when you see more of yourself in someone else than you ever thought possible
beds turning to rocking chairs
a perpetual haze
who even thinks before they write anymore
who even thinks right anymore
go to bed earlier and the sun will shine all day
close your **** door
the screeching can be heard from the street
the screeching can be heard in the street lamps
the bed is falling off to one side
the bed isn’t falling on my side
one hundred years ago this was a midlife crisis
now it’s just a desperate attempt to keep going and going
my sweater is curled up in a ball in the corner
waiting to keep me warm
as if it could ever keep me warm
the books like fallen leaves are strewn all over
a half read chapter where i say “yes” then stop forever
i’m terrified of how much strength it’ll take
of how long the “to do” list is going to be
when i look it over one last time and tell people that went well
there’s not enough and too much all inside of me
a void is a cliche word but it’s there and it’s swimming with dust
everything seems ironic
everything seems like some crazy twisted comparison
but it’s just the bottle
it’s just the haze
it’s just time for bed
then it’s a new day
a new week
a new something

don't turn yourself into a bomb
buildings shattered into ashes
the motor wake and the sensational guilt
jittering fingers and itchy palms
that will refuse to feel again;
“your life is not your own.”
don't turn yourself into a bomb
all of them will grow out their hair
rooms going unclean for months
and the question will get passed about;
“why?” for you to you, forever
and everyone was so fond
imagining sawyer as a bomb
as he lurks in the ceiling tiles
peering into shattered ash
an explosive in the sky
an explosive in every home

simultaneously
dreading and wishing
noon

a collarbone earthquake
an early onset everything
bad publicity is such

disappointment in
timelines abstract i am full of
lines just askew

for fragment meals
songs entwined in a rib cage
keep waiting, waiting

made obtuse
another day another weak
twitch in a wrist

three conversations
leaning against the wall
sitting on hands

rain is always rain
widen the canals
before my toes go numb