brittle leaves swing with windchime thrills
scattering minature fairy hats northwards
bristle tops of seeded whimsy
light strokes branches of resilience
revealing notches and furrows filled with courage
warmed and hazelnut tones of sap and towering elegance
in the end flourishing into taffeta skirts of green
plumes, plums and sour-apple caterpillars

the radio is
broken again
and this time
is the last time

Your songs no longer
fight the static.

the crunchy hiss
the empty stutter
between pops

crackling cackles,
unplugged from the wall
still playing the song
of something ending
into a new beginning

Your songs no longer
fight the static

but I still hum
them to myself

at the edge
of our universe

BG-4/8/17

i’ve dated boys who didn’t make me laugh,
boys who took me to stuffy museums and bland restaurants
and told me i should be veiling my hair in church
i thought i was doing the right thing, i thought
my parents would be proud of me,
i thought maybe i could conjure up
some kind of feeling in my stubborn heart
that would make it worth my while,
everything i was always
supposed to want
in one

instead,
i found you:
a boy who likes silly accents and sneakers and
telling jokes that turn me
into puddles at his feet,
who lives with his mother  
and makes art from obscure things,
who paints just to get the words out and
never matches his clothes
bright eyes begging me to follow, making it up as we go along,
who needs the rule book, who has time to read?
and if there is a better way, we don’t need it;
we’ll take the mess. see,
we’re already there, and
if there is a better way, i wouldn’t know it

you ended our conversation with a 'see you later'
knowing full well you wouldn't
i'd like to think it was a slip of the tongue
rather than a rub of salt but
there's no way to be certain

i can't describe what it's like
to realize that the stubble on my face
is the same that brushed against your cheek
or this hair, the same that your
fingers navigated through
like blades of grass

if i could say that i was sorry
in a way that you'd appreciate,
i would. but we're too fargone,
this foregone conclusion
was only constructed in
the heart of one of us.

if i could give you back the time,
that you've stated now was wasted,
each memory, cards with
words of forever strewn about,
rings that were promises,
walks by the riverside,
while golden sunshine ushered
in new love, coffees paired
with wintry walks through an empty campus,
where i first realized, i'd miss you.
i would. but sand in an hourglass,
can't float upwards, regardless
of intent.

through dawn i stumble,
singing to bustling streets through
clenched teeth, through
wavering eyelids i
am the sum
of the sleep
i haven't got. i
  was lost,
and couldn't
and can't tell if this day
pervades, but;
  lost like this, lost
undercurrent, while caverns of cloud subsume,
i can take this.

in an instant,
lucid life is a dream i
carve whilst awake. i'd
never seen vanishing
as perfectly as this
platanus leaf beneath
rain, beneath me.

the sky dissolves as i breathe,
choking on city air.

at the end of everything,
i draw out short
straws. indisciplined, the
spaces between my heartbeats
become,
to curl up and writhe and
scream aloud your name,
to take down
the whole **** coast
on the single point we
intersect,

   with hope;

to fall into your life, like
slow leaves to footpaths.

I saw you
and I appreciated you

the curve of your smile
the crease by your eyes
the warmness of your voice

but this time
it didn’t knock me down
it didn’t stop me in my tracks
my heart beat didn’t increase
I was able to speak to you
without my voice getting caught
in my throat

time changes things
I can appreciate you now
without the overwhelming emotions
of what could have been

once I was forced to take a step back
I could see how you and I
were not meant to be
we were two puzzle pieces that
did not fit together

and it is okay

now

my hands are still
soft from rolling dough
in sugar,
still smell faintly
of cinnamon and nutmeg

cardamom and clove
spiral upward in
the smoke from black
tea, a warmth
inside to mingle
with the smoke of
fire

I have nutmeg hands
and chai-campfire lungs

I am warm-scented
steam in an empty
orange sweater

I am the poem