the aroma of the dead and dying
lingers heavy in my bed,
yesterdays shirt and tomorrows hate draped across a chair like falling flowers,
like the ones on my desk, picked
with joy and anger, but that has long since faded and wilted,
giving way to the dead and dying, like me,
wrapped tight in blankets,
clinging to the tiny voice of mother, on the other end of the phone,
repeating the refrain, the chorus, homage to the homesick,
"Everything will be all right, with time."

Have I ever watched ink spread through water,
black fade into white,
contrast sharpening focus until all that is left is blurry words?

The dust has only just begun to settle,
on dead fields, barren once more, since then, since then.

Nebulae have only just begun to settle, fabrics of your mind,
folding, turning, since then, since then.

Oily words have only just begun to settle, on my skin,
black streaks along my skin, since then, since then.

Narcissus gazed upon inky space,
dust reflecting golden starlight into his face,
and he sighed in discontent,
blowing air from his lips to disturb delicate ecosystems he had no place in.

My heart, the very center of my being, has been locked away,
thrown carelessly into the expanse of space I hold so very dear,
locked inside a glass jar, a glass jar full of embalming fluid and Earl Grey,
to hold me inside, to contain me, to comfort me,
as I float away, as I watch the stars from inside my glass prison, my chosen media for viewing the galaxies that held me alive,
as I die among my hearts,
among the stars, each one another poet,
freefalling.

Small purple thunderstorms live in my forest, shattering their own worlds with musical rain and shocking thunder.

When all is gone,
When all has faded,
When my universe has left,
When my stars have evacuated,
And the world is dying,
Wake me up,
And I will write a new one,
I will paint a world.