all heads throb
as
         a
papered-up-shop-window moon
decomposes without much commentary

the stars are out :
sight-hounding for mortals
to dine
upon

and i sit,
belly-full, and heart-hungry :
hoping to
*****

you called me home
with an invitation
to
claw your body clean
apart .
“closer”, you smiled :
as i
came

//we trace over eachother’s outline in wild gestures:
taking measurements
      
trembling with bodies like shivering beds
          meatpalms up
          begging to receive
something in the invisible, irradiated dark

creases in the same giftwrapping bag that makes the rounds
    year after year
we shave off every last fiber
of our oldest tinder pile
in solemn observation for the
thumb on the cold glass
universe

I see them in reflections - the orange juice glass at breakfast or my iPhone where they can pop-up, like notifications - I keep my phone face down.

They usually want to tell you something - how it was for them - their history. I discount these emotional messages - they come with the jester's assumption that I care - that I need the performance and will get involved.

“What are you doing?” My mom asks, as I’m taking all the shiny, mirror-like ornaments off the Christmas tree.
“The glare gives me a headache” I say, without stopping.
“Your Grandma does that too”, she says, wiping her hands on a Santa-themed dishtowel.
“Really?” I say, but I know that, and I know why.

I started having nightmares, when I was in first grade. My mom thought I had an overactive imagination but when she described it to my grandma, she soon showed up for a visit.

Over the next few weeks my Grandma told me about our “gift”. About how we were both born on the same day, under a waning third moon, in Autumn. That we're both “Yins,” doxies (sweethearts) of the dead and that we could, at times, see and hear people who were between stops on their way to their afterlives.

That’s why the dead parachute into my unused moments from reflective surfaces. They can be anxious or in despair - when their deaths were cruel or sudden - but I'm barely an adult - I'm in school - what can I do??

The presence of water discourages them - which is perfect - can you imagine seeing spirits in the reflections of your bath? EEUUUWWW!  
You’ll hardly ever see me without a water bottle or polarized sunglasses - which seem to break up the images. I'll not be smothered in other people's afterlives.

So let us go then, you and I,
As the sky
Swells purple,
Vivid like petals from the asters-
Whilst pearlescent pigeon feathers pirouette down from the rafters.
As I gaze with my eyes
At your beautiful soul;
I no longer have to search for my home.

i look at you -
long and hard;
strike one off
the tally card -
of false promises,
and dubious words;
i peck your bud,
and fly like a bird.

i draw the line,
and watch it fade:
every second
you and i are away -
from each others grips,
coming down the trips -
i wonder if there was
another way.

smoke rings rising
up the clock -
show me the times
i forgot to lock:
my impulse for a high;
i’m not sure why -
i was expecting a key
at the bottom of the rock.

They say I am like her,
and her,
but that is
blasphemous,
backhanded as
my sorrow must
bleed through.

Cannot make it
pretty,
there is no way
to make it
tender.
Cannot wish it into
a petal, a leaf,
there is no way
to warm the
sun.

They say I am like her,
but she is in
the dirt buried by
her own
hands-
and her hands
too!
She cried straight
into the
crypt.
Diagnosed with
the
disease of
death.

Do they also say
they hope
I end
like her,
or her,
too?

hot cheek
on the cool tile wall

lashes fluttering wet
breath like vaporized diamonds into the slushy planet churning like time beyond the strategically - cracked window .