you dream
one-thousand pounds
heavier than me—
a weaved, night sky
complete with brass buttons
and the bobby pin you forgot to take out
this

tessellation of Sunday letter
haunts me with your

lace and peach
as my fingers conduct

the bundle of flowers
to smoke

gnaw red your bone
in the aliform of dream
this

allocation of my
guts spreads lips
onto stained paint buckets
I

never meant for
us to be beautiful
adding

music
to every line
that came out
your mouth—

a moth-springing
butterfly
its

wings no longer
dusted but

dried and wasteful.

it was the
paradox of doubt
and

I cried through
painkiller night

what chance does the rain have,
of fixing a broken heart?

i told you once that i didn’t love you,
on a cold morning,
as raindrops fell from the swollen clouds.

so similar to the rain on a day,
when drumbeats sounded from the canvas of stars,
and our faces turned to watch the heavens open up,
phantom hands grasping each others.

i lay alone under the clouds,
listen to the afterworld pour it’s sorrows,
sliding down my bedroom windows
remembering a night you held me close
and i couldn’t breathe.

i told you that you’d hold me,
that day
forevermore
and you held me, and held me,
until i felt like i was on fire,
so i set myself in stone.

as the stone cracks,
i feel the rain on my face again,
and i long to hold your hand
watch the god’s home above
as they shed tears for us,
this small world
under storms of fires and drums.

No one can measure
the end....
the time it takes for grief
to spend itself...

to melt like snow
in times of healing
to take its gentle leave
No one can measure
the tending time between the aching...
that grows
into the bones of soul
that grows
less
about the awful pain
  
It just sorta happens
like spring...

among the moments