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Dec 2016
I wake up as you sleep, rise to the sun. See what it holds and then lay back down.
The devil’s gonna set me free.
So through the Mississippi stain, the Tennessee twang, I lay there with my eyes glued to the wall. The pale plaster, the beige boredom.
I’ve got no place to call home, all these chains lead to broken bones.
But in this bed I feel at home, a piece of my past here at last, for you to east your troubled mass.
I love you like the spiral on my notes, holding my pages together with certainty.
I love you like the *** whistles, alerting me that our insides are boiling over, seeping out onto a dark and dismal surface.
I love you like the dull picture piercing my eyelids, seeping in from the TV screen at the foot of the bed I’ve made, keeping me awake.
I will be your spiral, your twice-welded metal, your spewing colors.
I will be the covers that hold you when the fan wanes, when the temperature wavers, and the heat creeps in.
You can keep your mountain side, I will climb it.
And when I reach the peak, and the wind from your planet pushes my heels to the side,
I will cry your name once more.
I will push, and you will push me back. And when our whirlwinds meet the they will calm themselves, sending each other into the blue ocean, the emptiness swallowing our sorrow.
And we will sink to the bottom, the pressure of the waves breaking our heads, and the silent sand welcoming us home.
We will befriend the dead. and welcome the living, the coral and sponge, the bubbles and breath.
James Tyler
Written by
James Tyler  Memphis
(Memphis)   
317
 
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