My favorite photograph of you
was ruined today
by a quick current
of cranberry juice.
Its blooming, rosy streams
bled right through
your face
and then you were
indistinguishable.

I merely sighed
not because I wasn’t sad
but because I have convinced myself
to expect such accidents
and accept them
as a part of us.

Last night, I told an old fir tree of you. The violet-blue of the night sky mocked me as I spilled my heart onto the dewy ground. I was met only with the lazy crickets’ chirp as I concluded my confession with ferocity. I couldn’t have expected them to understand. Sometimes, to me your palms look unfamiliar, something I have always feared but reluctantly forseen. I’m not one for superstition but I’ve smashed enough mirrors and spilled enough salt to know the consequences all too well. I spend each moment telling anyone that will listen about the imprint you’ve left on everything I’ll ever feel again. Not even my skin could breathe without you. And while it seems I’ve made you out to be a noose around my neck, none could ever say I spoke poorly of you.

Poolside eyes,
up to my knees in
iris, mint,
azure hues:
I cannot do them justice
but neither could she.

In the fall,
she’d change with the leaves:
green to gold,
clumsily.
Cool air hazed the space between
fact and illusion.

I could not
stop my trembling hands
I am slave
to sorrow
my bruised knees are going numb
I am dumb for you.

I have not
known sleep since you left,
I am blind
to solace
my swollen eyes are throbbing
I am ill with grief.

I will not
rinse you from my bones
I am deaf
to reason
my foolish heart is stubborn
I am yours alone.

She was the wilderness
in kind, earthy tones
and thick, lavish air
hanging heavy in the white
afternoon.

I was the ocean,
in heaving, sickish hues of green
and soapy, feverish fits
swelling onto the bay,
clumsily.

Her sunkissed stare,
and oleander skin
could bruise the freshest fruit
and so she left me with her
mark.

I spent August nights
dizzied by her spell
but encompassed in my sadness
I became
a ghost.

Even now, I drop apologies
like petals at her feet
and watch mournfully
as the yawning earth
flaunts her
as its bride.

He had a charm like the forest,
wet and murky
it could pull you under
like quicksand.

And like a simple reed,
I was part of him
not wholly insignificant
but expendable.

I would look on shyly,
as kaleidoscopes of grey-green mist
filtered through his underbrush
and finally encompassed me.

To fill one’s lungs
with his marsh-water
would be foolish,
yet divine.

I’d like to be your lungs,
a necessity,
forever expanding and contracting
always a place for me
inside of you.

Again I crack,
crumble
and settle at your feet.

Looking up at you,
you’re closer to the sun
than anyone should be.

I dampen my heels
in pools of nostalgia:
elixir of the heart
and a simultaneous poison.

Even the pale tree-leaves,
in a conspiracy
allude to you.

I tell myself
these circumstances
are beyond my control.

Sitting patiently,
I practice not thinking
of you.