I've just been
reciting the lines of that one bite,
one or two
or however many it took
for me to pull away.
In my mind,
it was a choice I made,
to end that soft embrace;
in truth,
it was that one cold
hard
bite.

So unlike you,
so strange.
You surprised me,
but you felt nervous,
shaken,
wary,
uncertain,
not ready,
not confident,
in your own ability to draw blood.
I pulled away,
just enough to tell you
I'd remember this.

In my mind,
it was a choice I made,
to wait until I could not see your mouth,
those teeth,
before I cut the string.
One string,
one quick snap,
and that bite was nothing but a few words in my mouth,
a few chords with no song,
an embarrassment to the idea of pain.

In my mind,
you tried too hard.

In reality,
I tried too hard
to try harder
to feel that bite,
until I felt it,
and it didn't feel right.
Sometimes, though,
I recite the idea of your teeth
sinking in,
and I am reminded
that in my mind,
it was a choice I made
to pull away.

Bite or no bite,
I would have done it anyway.

I wrote this on the spot,
without a thought
as to who might read it.

I wrote this on a whim,
sink or swim,
I told myself,
trying to catch my thoughts as they floated by,
grab on
and make it to shore.

I wrote this sitting there,
on the rocky bank
of my escaped fate,
dripping with grateful water
and empty.

I wrote this empty,
trying to fill the space left over
from the thoughts that did escape;
I caught a few
and saved myself

but of course
I wasn't satisfied.
Sink or swim,
I told myself,
you knew how it would go.

I wrote this sitting there,
ashamed
and childish
and wanting more from myself.

I wrote this on a whim,
sink or swim,
I told myself,
write it now
or you'll forget.

I wrote this on the spot,
without a thought
as to who might read it
or why.

all my life and all my goals
fade away
in your presence, dear doubt
i falter

all my time and my efforts
slip down from my shoulders
in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down
by the future

dear doubt
i ask you
to spare me from the harsh light
keep me in the soft dark
asleep

painted on, this mural
time and time again
referred to as history
i'll live within those lines
if only, dear doubt
you'll spare me

all my life, all my goals
all my time, all the tolls you hake taken
i have paid

all my efforts, my breath
all my cries and my threats you have taken
i have paid
time and time again

in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down by the future

in your presence, dear doubt

i falter

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re drunk
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain

this half a heart becomes a whole
whether or not you know it
out here i am never alone
spent most of my life
in places like these
and i’m always looking for more

recount the gossamer threads
because i love those words
and the nonsense means nothing
but i love nothing
it feels like home

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re sober
it’s not the alcohol that makes the scene
it’s the scene that makes the alcohol
obsolete

i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i drink
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i breathe
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i believe
in those gossamer threads
fire and stars
alcoholic words

i love nothing

it feels like home

Well, I’m putting it off,
the part where my brain actually does something
useful
for once.
And instead I’m dwelling
on my mind,
in my mind
and out of it,
twirling through each day
on a slow fade
away
from what,
I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I want,
just that moment of contact
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
and I’ll be fine.
I’m putting it off,
the part where I step down from this cloud
and step into my body.
Instead I’m dwelling on
in
above
the spaces around me,
moving through each day
on a fast train
away
from what, I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I miss,
just that uncertain rush
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
which is a funny thing to say
because I think I desire it
after all.

I already miss it,
the lazy crawl of time,
hurried waves across the water,
fast cars glinting under the yellow sun.
I miss the easiness of good-byes,
with the knowledge of their flimsiness
in this drawn-out frame of time,
long days
and warm nights,
the flight of feet across pebbles and sand.
I’d live there forever,
memories replaying,
never growing tired of those colours,
only tired from the day;
and yet
two or three hours will do it,
curled up with the imprint
that a warm body makes next to mine,
and if they’re there,
really there,
that’s fine.
But summer is when I don’t mind
being alone at night,
because I’d rather be perched on those rocking slats
of old wood,
water lapping at my heels
as they tease the water.
You could plant me here,
roots digging down through the cracks
and around the ancient tires
that keep this dock afloat;
you could plant me here
and I would grow.
I have grown
in these months,
as I always do,
mind, body and soul
drinking in the new words I learn
and the songs that repeat endlessly on the radio
and the lyrics I find in my head,
only to dig up later,
much later,
and put to wistful chords.
Bare toes,
freckles emerging,
hands seeking refuge in each other,
tinted glass peeling
to reveal more of the interior;
the leather seats
and empty bottles
and eyes lined with smiles
that show through those perpetual frames.
I’ll sit and wait
for as long as it takes,
until that shimmering sun takes its leave
and the only light comes from the old lampposts
that stick out of the water like totem poles,
protecting their darkness.
And when it’s over,
I’ll sigh,
summer escaping from my reddened lips,
you
escaping from my carefree arms,
sand washing from the creases in my old denim shorts
and trickling down the drain,
and I’ll move on.
I always do.

If I’m not mistaken,
I saw you today,
pale but golden,
flimsy
yet rooted to where you were standing,
neck bent,
looking off into the distance.
I know I am mistaken,
seeing you today,
so many miles away from where this could be true;
but the truth is,
I keep seeing you.
Reflected in every dark head of hair,
shining through every silly, crooked smile,
every turned back
becomes your broken one,
and I am scared
every time it happens,
skirting around the corners
with my eyes trained on your shoulders,
waiting for them to
snap
and turn towards me;
scared
of how wrong I am,
to see those shoulders turn with someone else’s face
held aloft on that neck;
scared
of the strength with which I pull the door open
and escape each facsimile of you.
It’s sad, really,
I know this,
involuntarily shrugging it off,
excuses ready-made,
for I know this will fade
in time.
It always does;
the shock of a new place
makes me run back into old ways,
and soon you’ll be gone again,
no more shadowing me,
no more appearing in every face,
no more escaping
each metaphor,
each reference made;
soon you will fade
and I will move forward
into that sunset,
the one that you see when you stand like
a cowboy,
crooked,
bent,
head tilted,
eyes transfixed.
And I,
unable to help myself,
am transfixed too,
even as I move on.