I said goodbye to you every morning for twelve years;
the place where I grew up.
Where all my insecurities are tied.

My friends found you almost as interesting as I
did. I brought my puppies home to you—much to your terror.

When I was younger, I loved playing hide and seek.
And there wasn’t a single space
— in which I couldn’t cozy myself to hide in,
just like how you cozy yourself among the trees.

You’re the warmth of mom, and the coldness of winter break.
You’re a catalog of framed faces.
You’re an audience of one, with a front row seat to my life,
— my home.

Saying goodbye wouldn’t be as easy if I didn’t have so much practice.
Sometimes it’s welcomed, sometimes it’s prolonged.
But some day I’ll say goodbye and learn to find you elsewhere.

Hungry thoughts pierce my soul
Reminding me of what I’m missing
The light passes over my eyes
Reminding me of what I’m not seeing

I stare helplessly at the curtains
They hold in as much light as they can
I brace myself for the changing of the clocks
I hold in as much light as I can

Sitting up in bed, covered in my mistakes
I look over at my latest blunder
Thinking of the excuses I will spew
I look over at my constant living

Last night’s love opens their eyes
I wait for their regret to pour through
They expect me to start the end
I wait for their excuses to follow

When I open my mouth, my hand follows
Tracing the light on their face
The body cannot lie about love
Tracing the truth with actions

My hand gets caught in my mistake
Trapping me at the edge
All remorse leaves their eyes and they are
Keeping me at dawn

Abide
by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"

It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea

boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide . . .
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).

Originally published by Light. Keywords/Tags: Philip Larkin, Aubade, abide, death, mortality, religion, drink, drinking, drunk, alcohol, fettle, mettle, Nirvana

The goddess of the spent moon skulks to her feathery bed of fiery dawn.
Wrens through the uplands wend the fence weft with piecemeal straw.
Lips painted like pomegranate groves, dashed with fructifying sweets.
A kiss is a far-off and warm opening of lips like the sun into forest gleams.

The rooster's crow warns me that dawn has come
My sleepy eyes resist my need to rise
I blindly reach for her but she is gone
Then hear a sound that much to my surprise
Reveals she hasn't left but still is near
The sound then ever closer she appears!
One last embrace and kiss before she leaves
Declare undying love to last the years
Such declaration mitigates our fears
As varied shades of love each one perceives

Dying Sun

Warmth on my eyelids welcomes a new day
and you, create a reflection against my skin
pink carnations sit on the window sill
soaking up the sun, but desperately begging for water
I kiss you gently and grab the vase
my fingertips brush against you while the birds wish us good morning
I remember how much you loved the pink carnations when we got them
your soft, delicate hands so gently pouring water into the glass
the crinkles by your eyes because you were so happy
and because it was always too sunny by that window
you didn’t care though, sun made you smile
so even when the birds stop singing
or the carnations begin to die around you
I know that the sun will make you smile.

Caress me, melt in me
let me see the love in your eyes,
Brimming, ululating passion
radiating in delight.
These lips craving for the touch of mine
Like the falling star
waiting to touch the ground,
But in vain, our hopes are
Vanishing before our eyes
with the rising sun.

Once again we have to part;
Once again we have to die,
Till night comes
And breathe in us life
again.

Alas! Why this sun, why the morning?
Why this rein fall on innocent lovers?
Who want nothing but to lay in each others arm
Today, tomorrow, after morrow.
Go and love first!
then only then you’ll fathom
how sharp your rays are that slice
one soul in two, every dawn.
Still, your rays are not
Half as strong as our love
Stays fervid with every partition.

You, my love, the smile of my life,
Immure these tears inside eyes
Cheeks are mine not them to kiss.
Come in my arms, clasp me so tight,
Canoodle, smooch, implant equal kisses
a clock runs in a day; my sole sustenance.

If I do not return with the return of twilight
Then let loose tears, with them, me too.
And grant this fascist sun victory
over transient us,
But not our love,
We’ll kindle our love
by making dreams our home.

the distance between us felt further the moment i was in your arms. your words were as empty as the wine bottles on your mantle, your kisses were needles filled with lidocaine.
laying in your bed felt like laying in a coffin. i wasn't really there. you weren't really there, either. the streetlights illuminated these lies we told ourselves in a soft, yellow wash.
i remembered as your breathing slowed that you didn't know my last name. the exposed brick walls taunted me with the whispers of pasts until dawn. the sun rose patiently. you didn't say a word when you walked me to the door.
i've realized love does not exist within the confines of your bedroom. it might not even exist within the confines of your heart.
you told me you were afraid you could never love anyone again. i took that as a challenge like a bird to a glass door. smash, blood, regret.

the cracks in the shades
make stripes along my sheets
eternity and death
laying beside me

it's time for them to leave
but their promises
will never vacate
the indentation on my mattress

their breathing, their whispers of truth
that progression is happening
that the world is spinning
that I am dying

spending hours assuming
that their touch will render me
into anything but a funeral
pacing in a skull

when they leave, I
am sure they will never
return. for this figment of my
imagination, has ended me