one time
we were floating in the pool
(i don’t know whose)

and you told me about the conversations you were having with your therapist
how she challenged you to make the idea of
killing yourself
so complex that it would just be too much work to do

and as i floated nearby
eyes watching yours
our skin pale and wan in the moonlight and that muted waterglow from beneath us
i remember myself wondering why i knew
that we were never meant to be

our hearts too alike, perhaps
you always called me insane
but i never wanted to **** myself
i never had to come up with plans too obtuse to carry out
i did not tell you my thoughts while we pruned in the darkness

no

instead i longed simply not to be
that every night when i closed my eyes
my consciousness would cease
no future
no tomorrow
no wailing, clawing, inexorable creeping of time
tearing me apart molecule by molecule

i did not wish for death
but i did not wish to live
and trapped in that terrible ennui
you (and you) (and you)
drifted away from me

until the moon clouded over and i was alone
floating in the pool
(i don’t know whose)

In another life,
perhaps it was
you and I—
there, we laughed
a little more,
held on
a little longer.

But here,
we’re fragments,
familiar faces,
strangers in the heart.

We spoke of other lives,
but, I wonder—
do you see
we’re bound to this one,
with only one chance
to learn our way through?

My photos of her

presence: the pile of dishes,


the untidy bed.

It took you ten days to ruin my life,
In the most tragically beautiful way.
I regret nothing,
For you have shown me everything,
And yet, there’s still more to learn.
I see you everywhere, in everything—
All the little things bring me joy,
beauty, and love.

You are my muse.
All these things and more,
I want to share, with you,
But for now, I will have to show
your Ghost.

The first ten minutes of every twilight morning since,
I could almost convince myself,
you’re still here.
The pillows in the night
shift just so, and feel like
my head on your chest,
entwined—feet, legs, arms, hands, fingers—
until I reach out
and remember,
you’re a Ghost.

The last ten minutes of each dragging day
are the hardest.
Darkness is comforting;
for in the dark, your Ghost still looks back,
unyielding, vivid, carried forward,
with every breath
I take.

I’ll wait for ten thousand years,
but, hopefully,
it doesn’t take that long.

I didn’t think it was possible to ****
a cactus, but I have.
Cactus corpse lies on the
drooping shelf
the spikes, once full of stabs and stings,
now limp and lifeless
(but scars on my fingers
prove it did cut me)
even the lamp misses the cactus’ prickly
presence, refusing to raise its head
rusty radiator moans loudly,
mourning the loss
I don’t think I’ll ever keep a plant again.
disappointment of the death
has left a longer-lasting mark than
scars on my fingers and
I can't bring myself to move
its corpse from the lonely old shelf

I shove my fist down my throat to stop butterflies spilling out,
spluttering under sticky toffee pudding sky

lines and lines of grass wave hairy heads, panicked to be plucked in
late May air - bare and dry, naked as paper.

We drink fizz to soften silence, look down at birds chasing their shadows.
Ice on pinking thighs

I lick my lips to hide frantic flapping wings,
clouds gather as marshmallows, bodies of grass rise to look.

tongue tickled by flutters, I drink more to drown the butterflies.
Let them digest into crawling caterpillar crumbs in my stomach’s pit

What sweet memories
of not forgotten ,
lost in an overgrown
garden of time .
☆
Drifting down avenues
where displaced lovers
meet Hibiscus and Passion
Flower ,
who show them the way .
☆
Where long marble hallways
have thousands of rooms ,
and in each scented room
a cherub guards a dream .
☆
Because all dreams are real
and can live without us ,
though sometimes when
dreaming
a truth is revealed .

Death is my own covetous possession,
A hand-me-down with the worn edges
Of a closed, burnished keepsake box.

Death is the memory of a tree-lined walk,
A daguerreotype, a trompe-l'oiel des bois,
Sight itself turned within, but without end,
A forest of unstirring eyelashes, like long uncut grass,

Death is the stillness of pewter leaves,
And sorrow is sadness in love with itself.