A quiet recklessness,
undone seat belts and unlocked doors,
how midnight sits in your mind like
the hands of a clock are holding it there.
It's a different music now, a change
in how the dream tastes, the way
everything feels like sandpaper.
You swore you could see
from underneath the dark of your eyelids.
Go back to sleep, I said.
Someone asked me
what faith was. I said it was an act
of surrender. We have faith
in what owns us. You asked me
what faith was, but I couldn't
look you in the eye.
I remember you liked
your socks to hug your toes.
I remember I liked how you looked
when you told me that,
bathed in a beam of refrigerator light
like a helicopter search, the corner
of your mouth twitching upwards
into a lopsided smile.
It begins like this; It ends like this.
God spit us out of his mouth.
God sent a flood to wash us clean.
God made us from dust, and we still haven't
recovered.
You can't drive me out of Eden
without driving yourself out.
You drove us out of Eden, and I
hate you for it. You drove us out of Eden,
and I love you anyway.
Figure that one out.
You don't really know who you are
until you lose it.
Spilled milk, it's sad, you know?
We forget, we do, everything
except this, the way it settles
in your chest, your heart
working overtime to pump through it.
I have regrets, but
you know that already.
The tumble of words from a
desperate mouth and the
letters still stumbling
home half-drunk, naive.
If I knew you were going to leave,
I would have kept my *******
mouth shut.
I have regrets.
The night the moon wouldn't show
its face and how a confession
felt less like a confession when
mumbled into the side of your neck.
I am still waiting for you, still
counting sheep after they are sheared,
blinking at the shrinking horizon inside you.
Maybe if I could touch you again,
I'd find the braille there that would
make me understand.
yeah
