It is a nearly Wednesday morning and
I am so ******.

you proclaim that every day has me :
engraved into the darkness of your eyelids,
pressing against the inside of your skull ;
that you can’t ever, not even for a second, forget
and i wonder if you are lying
because if that’s true,
then that means your weeks of silence
are made of intentional ignorance,
knowing that i have burning imprints of you :
trapped in my lungs,
making a staircase of my rib cage,
just out of place like a cool sweat in a heat wave.
my fingers are still cold and hands still shake at the idea
that you left the refrigerator open on purpose
because you had no intention of keeping me warm.

do you ever sit beside someone
and the rest of the world goes quiet
or maybe that’s not quite the truth
the rest of the world falls into to chaos;
stir crazy,
violent storms of
should have and would never
and can’t now and won’t ever
and could possibly, probably can, maybe —
but your head goes quiet
and you wish you could just pretend for a second
that you are someone different and it wouldn’t mean as much
from your hands and your lips and your eyes or your mouth
and maybe someday the right words will come out
and all that fades into nothingness with swing back around
and mornings won’t feel gray until the sun comes out
and running won’t be away forever
but to some place in between then and now

do you ever just sit beside someone
and not know what to do with your hands
but wish they belonged to someone braver;
that you were a self-made man
and do you understand —
that you gave up too much of yourself to survive the hands of a lesser man
but the press of this one’s shoulder is more than you told her you wanted
but you wanted it

They told me you were there in the room;
I could hold you if I wanted —
but you were no longer you. Not in any context I knew you as.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I guess. Is my mourning selfish?
I said: rest easy, you deserve peace but I just kept thinking:
How could a whole person be condensed into a box?
Purple, marbled, cold; one I held as an excuse not to let go.
See, I had seen you yesterday but our farewells were not final at the time;
how could a chance to say goodbye make up for all the love lost —
when lost really means somehow ripped away entirely
and still left inside of me anyway?
What am I supposed to do with it now?
This will happen to all of us.
There’s a ghost in the living room —
but the ghost isn’t you, either.

snow has melted from your front yard
chocolate hovers warm, still baking;
sweets for parties i am not invited to.

i am cold suddenly and all at once
in places the outside air doesn’t reach.

the laughter of hello, proof of living
just opposite my corner table;
i am noticed but not spoken to.

i thought they said winter
was for the death of things.

you are sitting in the passenger seat
trees are whispers, street signs are ghosts
dark houses sleep outside the windows
there are so many people you don’t know
but there is one, comfortable as home
who still makes you split yourself open;
willing to offer all your internal organs
not just the ones your chest hosts
and it is the first time in so long
that the world stands still

the moment i looked up i saw your face
a screaming alarm and barely awake, early morning
dulled by your illuminated gaze
( dark eyes sparked so bright, the stars complain at night,
ironically you’ve been calling me starshine )
it’s supposed to storm today
my bones can already feel the rain, every pulse point an ache
we will weather the weather anyway
sunrise bleeds peach pinks through baby blue
i’m taking pictures of you
( without you here )
an everywhere, nowhere
both a part of this far apart from this
slow it down, closer to me
i wake only to talk to a dream
my hands offered ( cold ) to a hot chocolate lover
and we’re both burning but only inside
and we don’t make the obvious promises
but one day, some day, on that day
honesty, you’ll be right there beside
a tipped chair and two tangled sets of five
trust in truth debts we never truly need - please believe,
i won’t forget how you’re astonishingly real
despite combined hestitaion to feel,
high pressure pumping blood into ghosts
hearts in hands other than their hosts’
our ribs built separate houses for our traded homes
you could have anything you wanted from me
you don’t ask
but i’ll play every simple song i know
and when that’s not enough i’ll just hum notes
we have time
we have time
we have time

the same day as the last date listed
the same name on my legal documents
the same bed, same room, same ugly carpet
same fear, same dream, same empty hall closet
but no more window
i can't see the street from here

things keep moving behind my back oh and i'm so happy that they
keep going off and meeting people i've never met and keep going places i'll never get
keep leaving me here, circumstance

still writing
still making music
still trying my best
still waiting for the same person to turn around and pick me instead
still sitting
still running in the mornings above freezing, still trying to forget
still home in connecticut
still breathing !

(still re-reading that google doc)
still thinking about it
still wondering if i died who would get the message

and the beats between your breaths on the telephone
        as you fall asleep
and the way you treat me
        the next morning as if i didn't sing the lullaby at your request
and the silence
        that stretches between us until you need comfort
and how i can't ask for anything
        because i hurt you, once
and how i can't talk about how you're the one that ended it