I wrote you a note at 5 am,
you read it,
with no reply.
Before you left you asked for a picture of the two of us.
I made a joke and we laughed through the pictures.
But all that I could think about was
how it felt to have your arm around me.
It was holding me,
as I held you.
I wish I could go back to that moment,
but it's gone.
When we said our goodbyes,
it hurt so much.
I wanted to tell you so many things,
but time was running out.
I hugged you so many times,
you thought it was strange.
As soon as you walked away,
my heart felt empty;
I missed your presence already.
We touched hands as you drove away
in that big green van.
I ran after you,
as did other friends.
But you were gone.
I can still see your eyes gazing into mine,
and your oh so sweet smile;
but you're gone.
Nowhere to be seen.
Water fills the cup. If it is too strong,
its flow will either break it or bounce back.
i’m not welcome here
anymore. the ground is
calling calling calling
my name in your voice.
i grab yellow roses-
did you know Van Gogh
ate yellow paint once?
people said it was because
he thought it would make
him happy, but he was
trying to kill himself.
i pin the flowers to my dress
because i want something
beautiful to die with me.
god knows i’m not.
i’m coming down to get
you, darling. i hope the concrete
hurts. you’re worth it.
Stars in paint, crackled glaze
walk the cobbled street with me.
ochre, blue and wizened haze,
A swirling canvas galaxy.
Light my broken dawn, my love
darkened hours, quiet night
bring me all the skies above
and drape the dim and pale moonlight.
Sadness, silence, watered cheeks
sunflowers waving in the dirt
charcoal clouded, ever bleek,
dark storms brew like bruises hurt.
Dewy glass and fired ale
absinthe daydream, starry night
touch my arm, porcelain frail
pale skin and paler light.
Constriction wracks my chest
Eyesight fading out at best
Drowing out my screams
They don't know what i mean
Cold are we
The crowd is sundered
With a sound of thunder
Black metal plating
Hidden by color
Sterile and voiceless
The second freezes and the door explodes
One or two to every home
The crowd plays on
A silver show
And all of mine
are on their own
The masks are on
of every song
The Loss of feeling
I have no doubt
And they are carried off
A few rounds pop off
The music stops
For a split second order holds everyone still as stone
Then my life is taken before my naked eyes
And I wake up here, alone, surrounded by the flock
My heart has been torn from my chest
God give me strength
She, Rachel, was mentioned in passing,
In a letter addressed to his brother, Theo.
She was just a girl that he had maybe loved.
Maybe more than loved. he didn't really know her,
But we would later learn how far he would go.
What's more than loved? felt possessive towards?
Felt protective of? idolized? worshipped?
These all sound unbalanced.
Some people enjoy that passion.
The yellow house crumbled underneath of it.
That unbalance must be balanced.
It can balance the world.
It can scare you to death.
It can push people away.
In time, it did all of these things.
He lived where tulips grow as rows of rainbows
And beards in winter kept his face warm and orange.
Where the water rests high above his head.
Where windmills turn to mill the fields of wheat.
Influenced by spirituality found in potatoes
Being consumed under dim light.
Influenced by the subtly curved right angles of elderly woman
Hunched over, farming the famished fields.
Repeatedly painting vases of turning souls, tournesol.
Influenced by color as we don't tend to notice,
Influenced by starlight behind a cypress night,
Influenced by the ideals of an eastern world and
Almond blossoms against a blue sky.
He was mad. a genius.
A man outside his time.
He gave her his ear; the whole thing,
Except for a partial earlobe.
He put it in a box for her
And delivered it personally.
Hoping she would listen.
At least thats what i like to think.
'Cause why the fuck else would you cut
Your damn ear off and give it to someone
You only know from a distance?
Maybe it was just to hear he voice.
I woke up today in a house, a house I knew was my own but looked much different than I remember. The kind of house one sees in dreams, unfamiliar yet definable. In some way or another. I was tangled in a bed of sheets that had clearly been slept on for months without cleanse. Painted with bodily secretions, ranging from love-making to menstruating. Ash, from pipes to papers. Make-up, from nudes to noirs. You, a stranger, walk in with a giant bowl of cereal and two spoons. You knew it was my favorite, but I didn’t know you. But I knew you, you know? In some way or another. I wanted to call you a name, but it didn’t seem fitting. Maybe it belonged to a memory, what was that memory again? Oh, I don’t know. But you looked at me like we had shared so many memories that we became a new name. You spoon-fed me Wheaties and folded your feet between my legs. You kissed me and whispered a Van Morrison tune, “I never knew the art of making love ‘til my heart yearned with love for you.” And that’s when I knew.
I shoot up from the bed, leaving a concave within the foam mattress, and eye the carpet as if my feet were going to fall through.
“Hardwood. This is supposed to be hardwood.”
“What?” your eyes follow me in confusion.
I grab a loose end of carpet near a corner and start tearing it up from its bonds. Low-and-behold, blonde hardwood sat quietly beneath it, as if it’s been waiting for me to unearth it. Unearth you.
I buried You.
Everything started rushing back to me.
I get up unsteadily and tear down the wallpaper to find a screen playing back every memory. The faire. The zoo. The restaurant. The concert. The park. The bed. Our path. A doorway. A starry night under a deck. Loose cigarettes and empty bottles. A volume so loud I can’t hear myself assess. A voice echoing off every wall; “I love you’s” in infinite delay. “I hate you’s” in infinite succession.
I’m running through this half foreign house now trying to find You. Who, what, and where are You? You’re nowhere to be found. I’m searching behind every door, rustling through every nook and cranny, tearing down every trinket of décor. I’m falling to my knees and crying in my palms. Where are You?
I cry every last drop from the ocean of despair within me, open my eyes, and let the reality sink in:
This house is empty and You’re nowhere to be found.
"Where is my Monet?", I say
As I look through the blurred vision of an impressionist day.
A double paned view of reality
Swaying beauty through eyes once knew.
Where is my Monet or be it Van Gough?
All beauty's vision framed newly printed Picasso.
Shadow me done, and once never knew
What others should have seen as they counted me too.
So now, I say no
Not of Van Gough nor Monet,
I see beauty no Rembrandt nor Picasso to sway.
I see a simple little girl with all she will need
To see the world lovely and in the midst of all, succeed.