I look at you
In the photograph
I keep in the corner of my room.
I kiss your eye
As I remember the way you smile
And caress your cheeks
And imagine your heavy breathing.

I look at you
In the photograph
I kept in my back pocket
Like a map a navigator should have
To find himself
Every time he’s lost at sea
Knowing that there’s a
“You” that lies ahead
Knowing that there’s a
“We” to share a bed.

But circumstances aren’t like photographs.
They change.
And they will never be the same.
This photograph
In my hand
Our memories use to fade
Forgotten and unmoved

The world walks faster than me
Fear will sooner or later
Eat me.
Gulp me.
And as I ran ahead
Just to keep in line
I just can’t stay
Where you are all the time

The photograph
May fade
But not your smile
The photograph may fade
But I’m still wearing the same smile

She loved the soft touch
On her shriveled skin
My wilted Daisy
The moisture of my lips
Were enough
To make her feel
Replete with satisfaction
And I think she is perfect
Because by looking at her
Her soul gets a regenerating feeling
And the cracks in her skin
Cease to exist any longer

Her look sends chills down my spine
Her kiss sends jolts from my lips to my toes
Her touch gives me goosebumps like a scary story
Her embrace warms me like nothing else
Everything about her is good for my soul

When I was 12
I would sit and listen to
love songs and smile
and sing along,
and feel bad when people lost it.
I never understood,
how could someone be so sad?
"They are just a person"
I would think.

Now I know,
sitting up on late nights
looking at old photos
with tears streaming down my face.
Clutching my chest
wishing you were here.
Everyday is like a fight
to see how long it'll take
till you pop on my mind
and crush my soul.
Looking at the sky and knowing
somewhere you are there
and alone.

Now I know
and I hate it.

this is a poem about how you sleep,
how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary.
how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you.
did you know that you turned away from me
every time i tried to face you?
did you do it on purpose?
maybe you were afraid i would be able to see
you were dreaming of her,
that i would read it on your face.
lines by your mouth like obituary,
like roadmap, her bedroom,
the destination, mine, a pitstop.
loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself
and sitting in the front row. no.
loving you was like watching you pick out a casket
and call it practice. ****.
i know how sensitive you are about death.
i know it still hurts.
i know how everything hurts.
i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts.
i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me.
like if i can somehow dig deep enough,
wound you into remembering me.
i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket
for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.  
i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been.
but this isn't about me.
this is about the way you sleep
like you're waiting for someone to close the lid,
cover you in dirt, and read a psalm.
this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together,
and the way my voice gives out
when i read the things you write for anyone other than me.
lover, friend, stranger,
i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts.
i never meant to become one.
i am so ******* selfish.
but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps.
and you used to think my two left feet were charming.
i am out of time in more ways than one.
i keep stepping on your toes.
i can't seem to stop tripping you up,
hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was.

- m.f.