We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going—North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying—elbows stretching—fingers clutching,
Arm’d and fearless—eating, drinking, sleeping, loving,
No law less than ourselves owning—sailing, soldiering, thieving, threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming—air breathing, water drinking, on the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.

i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me
i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes

God, I need to stop writing about you.

But it seems my hand moves with your eyes
forcing me to forge letters with its movements,
and the words you say always sounds like music,
so by the time I look at my paper,
I've already written sheet music to last eternities.

I even went to meditation seminars in hopes of
finding peace within body and mind to get rid of you,
until I realized that you left a trail of your DNA
on the surface of my skin after the way you touched
every inch of me; its particles leaked its way
into the crevices and grooves of my brain.

And God, I just want to stop writing about you.

gd

and I can't shake this malady
I want to blur the lines of reality

I see you every day but I never know how you're doing
in the fleeting moment when your eyes met mine,
I fail to see that they don't glimmer with happiness to see me anymore
just a mirage that has been fooling me all this while
so it's funny the way it tickles when I realise
you're slipping away through my fingers
a sandstorm I created with my own hands that I have no control of
and I hate that when I ball up my fist, I feel like I'm suffocating you
in the end I chose to let you go and leave the remaining grains of sand
to be a memoir of your existence.

Why do I feel like it's a joke when I reminisce us
why do I allow myself to be your puppet
why do I fall apart at the thought of you
when I once let you be the reason for my confidence
but I want to laugh so hard at where we are now-
you look at me in the eyes as if I don't know what the hell I'm doing
and it's stupid because I'm letting you go for the final time
after all that I've done for you
after all that you've done to me
because I'm tired of the same punch line.

I compare you to so many things you're not
like the sun peeking through my window when
I wake up on the right side of the bed
like the bliss of having 2 classes in a day
and all this is funny because now, you're more like
the scorching 1 p.m. heat when I'm walking back to my dorm from campus,
the surge of frustration and anger pumping through my veins after class
because I'm hot-tempered and short-circuited all in one
and I let you explore which of my buttons to push;
your fingertips left me with bruises.


Even though I loved you, it's not ******* funny how much I hate you now.