I do not know what to make of this.
these scraps of clay and paper
that were once “Us” and now are “you” and “I.”
Paper-mache remnants of lonely romantic’s dreams
you present to me as relics of a bygone year.
I know you would like to rebuild.
But things are better this way.
Our hearts have thrown enough punches in the dark.

I didn't know that
this is how you see-
how you feel
how you do
how you survive...

Unaware of the fight
waging silently in your guts
or the marks of the years
upon your wrists,
like the partial rings of a tree.

I have the ears of a listener
The rules of a King
but still, all your words often fall deaf
on my nodding head-
What kind of guide, am I then?

I give you license and praise
to mark the stone
bearing mind that I feel false,
in my own direction-
a fault of my own.

I miss the way
your lips touched
and the way
your voice quivered
whenever you said my name,
I miss the way
you made it sound
like a prayer
and I felt like
heaven was near
and there was a god after all,
I miss the way
you would look me in the eyes
and I miss the way
you used to make me feel,
as if
I was you whole
******* world.

Unable to cast off the cloak of the day,
the slide of satin and pillows, no respite.
Sleep is no haven-

In the dark, they swell my heart.
In the murk, the memories of others clang about
ringing, shouting.
skull echoing to capacity.

it ebbs and flows-
the small brooks of tears
I
scoop them up in my basket
throat full of osmosis emotions
specks carried home like fleas on
a host beast

You take me there too-
flash your refusal and fear
through my sleeping mind
dream bits splayed, smeared, crossed.
richocheting through my inner ear

turned to the wall, I
send out a prayer that
I will see all of you
after the night.
whole, living, safe
with open eyes
bursting with
rage, hope and strength.

But who knows the morning?