I can’t come crawling back
With the skinned-up knees of a child.
You are the bicycle I’ve forgotten how to ride.
Can’t you see how dangerous you’ve become?

My heart has grown too big for the space I’ve allotted it.
You take up too much room.
It thrashes and throbs against its cage,
Enraged, defeated, sobbing.

You’re always so far away from us.

I can’t drag myself away from this hell.
Fifteen years has worn my joints to dust.
The sea air stings.
I need summer grass and chamomile tea in the sunshine.
Can you give it to me?

Don’t let me take your hand.
Don’t let me kiss the nape of your neck, the curve of your lips.
Don’t let me fade into you.
I’ll never be wholly myself ever again.

Three years disappear so quickly.
Just one thought can send my heart
Back to that day, back to that room
With the black curtains.
It races and I still don’t know why.
Your hands on my waist, my shoulders, my back.
Your lips so close but not close enough.
A cotton shirt reeking of cigarette smoke
And regret. (I’ve always hated smoking,
But I still wanted to breathe you in.)
There was something familiar
About the way you said my name.
I was a child, just a child,
And you were an animal
With a crooked grin and my love at your feet.
Three years,
And I still insist on making something
Out of nothing.

My cup runneth over with the most imperceptible despair.
A heart that weeps bitterly for itself,
For the futility and desperation of its existence:
To love, to love, to love,
For naught.

Churning and rattling within;
If only I could ***** up this feeling
To rid myself of it.
No, it grows steadily,
A sickness as deep as the Thames,
The banks of which he wanders
Aimlessly, searching the ripples
For life.

There is no way to drain love from oneself.
If I possessed the will, I would bleed myself dry.
There would be more relief there
Than in the insufferable nature of distance
And the anguish of flesh not kissed.

All these years and I don’t think you would
Remember my name.
You struggled with it;
It didn’t fit quite right on your tongue,
A tongue accustomed to the ghost of another language.
But to me, of course,
Every word you spoke
Was gospel.
You’ve done something wicked to me.
No man may take my hand
Without a silent comparison made.
You were my very own Aengus,
And none may live up to that.

I shouldn’t still remember the curve of your waist.
I shouldn’t still long to hear my name on your lips
Again.
I shouldn’t still long to say yours
In the dead of night
When I can recognise by the rise and fall of your chest
That you aren’t yet asleep.

I shouldn’t still be stuck in this reverie.
But I am.
Of course I am.

I am not with you
And that kills me.
No,
Maybe not ‘kills’.

It has become more of a daily injection
Of loneliness and phantom fingers.

I have nothing but my sight and my keyboard
And it isn’t enough.
It will never be enough.

You’ve never seen me blush.
You’ve never felt the circles I trace unknowingly into flesh.
You’ve never heard my convulsing laugh.
You’ve never seen me bare-faced and crying.
You’ve never really seen me.
And I’ve never really seen you.

But I know the grooves of your heart like my own.
I’ve learned your schedule;
I always know when you will disappear
And when you’ll come back.
I loved your beautiful soul first.
I loved you second.

Some days, the pain is easy to bear.
Other days, I want to tear my heart
Straight from my chest,
****** and battered
But free.

I’ve known a handful of ethereal people,
And I’ve watched them all walk away
Into another light, into their own worlds.

They were dreams with crooked teeth

And carefree wisdom in their palms.

They had me placing my heart at their feet,
And just laughed and kissed my cheek
With eternal lips.

Now that I’ve had a tiny taste,
How can you expect me to be satisfied
With this lackluster life
And these lackluster people?

It’s your silver tongue;
A night serpent
Between my sheets.
This isn’t right.

You make my world disappear
For a few hours of pleasure,
And I hate you for that.
I hate myself for that.

I have it all,
So why do I still need you?
Is this revenge?

I am weak,
I am so easily led
By your nimble fingertips.
My knees are bruised
And I hate you for that.
I hate myself for that.

I want to stop.
I never want to stop.
No strings attached,
That’s what we promised.

Don’t pretend that you love me.
Don’t pretend that you see beyond flesh.

Lie to me, please, but
Don’t go dragging my emotions into this.
Don’t you dare question my love
For those who aren’t you.
I hate you for that.
I hate myself for that.

I saw a new couple on the subway today.
Her arms were loosely draped around his neck,
Closer to him than his red paisley scarf.
Their legs fit together like puzzle pieces,
Lips locked in perfect unison.
Eyeglasses showing each other’s
Lovesick reflections;
He looked at her like she was Athena,
An infatuated smile never leaving his face.
They giggled quietly,
And for twenty minutes
They were no longer
Beneath grimy Boston streets.
It was Eden,
A utopia of butterflies
And freshly-brushed teeth.

But as I sat in my seat,
No lover of my own to kiss like that,
I wondered how long their honeymoon phase would last.
I watched her get off,
Watched them wiggle their fingers goodbye,
And watched his smile linger for a few minutes,
Then fade.

How long until her stop
Becomes his?
How long until their bodies separate
Into a gentle holding of hands?
How long until that too,
Like every predictable platform,
Becomes routine?
How long until they finally sit down?
How long until her stop
Becomes hers alone?

There is a low sheet of fog in the field across the way
And I am reminded of that afternoon.
We all remember it, but we don’t speak of it.
I dug up the grass with my bare feet
Running full-fledged somewhere, nowhere.
The holes served as a reminder during the weeks to come.
I collapsed and beat the ground until my fists
Were bruised and I had frightened the birds away.
I screamed out a sob but made no sound,
And I prayed for the day to end
And for you to survive it.
I begged and pleaded under my breath
In a language I didn’t understand.
I stared at the blank sky until I sensed darkness,
And went back inside
To my bed and my photographs and a phone call.
That was the day that I ceased believing in God.

My therapist told me
To make a *** of coffee or tea
When Anxiety acted up.
She said that just the sensation
Of a warm mug in my hands
Could work wonders.
This room is full of cold cups,
Littering every windowsill
And every dusty bookshelf.