she lifted her head up
sunlight hitting her crinkled wings
leaving streaks of bliss
over their tear-streaked covering

next; her wings
ever so slowly unfurled
weighed down by atrophy
she gasped, watching
as the lost become the undead

and when they spread she saw
how gorgeous they had been all along

often she fails to reside within the land of the living
but instead, among the realm of the dead
they speak to her in silence, swirling, singing
haunting the hollows of her head

phantoms of long forgotten memories obscure the path
between the sliver of the liver and the left
they mark purple knuckles and unheard cries
caught in the tear-stained glass

so she stares through sodden eyes,
a phantom in her own right,
at an image of a life that passes her by
trapped behind the glass of her own demise

when i was young
i tried to rewrite history
because i could not stand
to bear it all on shaky knees

i burned the old pages
drew a big x
through any future
i could foresee

the embers, they fell
snowflakes gracing
torched ground
and i ached to flee

to a place
that could hurt me not
i desperately rewrote the history
but in safety, i became the enemy

you and i
driving down the highway
i swear we could fly
with you behind the wheel

the pictures littered the car
like anxious petals fallen too soon
desperate pleads for a love
i could not express to you

steady hands on the wheel
you whisked me away
to a little burger place on the interstate
where for a moment we escaped

the rush of it all
the pain of it all
when i felt safe
to fall into you

eyes glued to the dot
amongst trees and cars
yearning to keep this spot
that, only briefly, we called ours

what does it feel like to be held
not by another body
not by a set of limbs, a chest, a chin
but
by another soul

what does it feel like
to see truth in another pair of eyes
instead of hidden intentions
instead of absence

what does it feel like
to hear a familiar heartbeat
resounding next to your own
reaching through skin
through bone
two rhythms
indistinguishable

what does it feel like
to write poems about
a love that exists

i pretend through night
that the pink flower spring
is for us, wild woman

to be loved for just a moment
in another place
one made outside myself
to forget the lingering
hatred etched in my soul
to just for a moment
let the cobwebs go
i think that might be enough