ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom

but internal nearness
beauty of never knowing
(it's a sad fate)
hot twitches
the clock ticks too loudly and I can't sleep
the music runs rampant over my hot nerves
every sound
a jolt to the side
hungry ghosts nibble at my heart
my warmth
come closer dear
do you see me?
I'm beautiful?

I'm only (only)
one step away
from the plane
this dimension
we could shatter like glass
make me scream
(i know you'll moan)
-moan for me

anorexic raindrops
complain against my pane
erasure
little windy whispers
they remind me of a time when i wasn't so god ******
alone.

Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.

We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.

Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.

Most days.

I am only words.

But some days, I am more.

Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..

I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.

And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.

I am still.

I am calm.

I am still calm.

I am still calmly waiting.

It's worth mentioning that we never made love.

Now. Everything is different.

I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"

And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."

Some days I am lost.

Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?

Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.

Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.

I am walking a tightrope of strength and..

Something else. Something else entirely.

Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.

And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.

Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.

And this is how I will end it.

I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.

And all wonderful happy lies.

I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.

And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...

I once allowed myself to seem less.

I guess...

I just needed to get you off my chest.

......................
and suddenly
it hurts
to think
you are
not there
for me
.......................

7pm:** it's one of those nights
8pm: watch tv
9pm: keep distracted
10pm: plan for tomorrow
11pm: go to bed
12pm: wake up and try to read until I fall asleep
1am: remember your charming smile and the way you run your fingers through your hair.
2am: flip angrily through the pages that I skim over because for some reason I strongly believe that a book on love will help me get over you
3am: think about why you don't and never did love me
4am: count the hours until I have to get up and blame you for keeping me awake.
5am: you used to keep me awake for things like talking about our futures and now I'm left here with half an empty bed wondering why your future doesn't involve me
6am: wake up tired from my 15 minute sleep and wonder how even on the darkest nights the sun still manages to rise
7am: I'm drinking coffee out of a cup that used to touch your lips every morning, like me, and I know you won't be back for either of us