It’s Sunday,
and I call my mother.
I spend an hour picking shards out of my teeth
From whatever broke her.
It’s an art I’ve practiced since childhood:
Smiling with gums bleeding.

You’d only hear the grimace in my voice
If you listened to me like I was a person.
Listened
As if I was not a reflection
Or an extension.

It’s Sunday,
and my mother answers
Without the slightest hint
That by the time I finished
dialing her number
The first aid kit had already been opened.

My fiancée’s fingers hover over an
“Are you alright?” text
Poised to hit send
When she hears the grimace -

Because she hears the grimace.

It’s Sunday,
And I do not call my mother.
My birthday visited yesterday
And echos greeted me
In her place -

Fractures that had been growing
unspoken,
We fell into headfirst.

My gums aren’t bleeding
But my teeth still ache.

Saw those green cans in your room today
hidden under piles of taxed papers.
A cheap empty metal that tore open healed wounds,
a putrid scent that infected my resolve.
Was I the true Alcoholic? Drunk on the delusion of healing
Or maybe you had never healed to begin with.
Maybe your desperation was just well-hidden
under the smile that blanketed your face
and a laugh that made me feel safe.

the plural of grief is grief,

in our lives, we busy ourselves
accumulating various assorted
grief, some physical, most mental,
those stories when retold, first
make you groan out loud,
every-one asks
what’s a matter, no spilling beans,
you shake ‘em away with
a smile and a “just life”
and it gets
dropped

if you’re so young, that you haven't
started a career of serious collecting,
the objects that will decorate every
place, in every state, wherever the
airy transplants, you won’t be
surprised, thinking you “forgot” to
pack them, for they travel light,
though, they weigh more than any
hope chest of unworn garments that
will never be discarded,
even when
hope is so long gone,
it is still an
unrecognizable

And yet,
the plural of grief is grief

and there is a singular story,
a lost love, a guilt for letting
someone get lost, leaving them
unknowing that if you could,
you’d whisper shouts of reconciliation
for days, to cain assuage the years
when they lay unspoke,
brike broke inside a human chest
of petty
grievances

I have one,
midst all my knowns, which
even not even now, even
in my truth serum poetry
that will not be confessed,
lest you’d beg me to
never write again,
move on to parts unknown,
let that gory story abide in your own,
in your windowless palace,
with your
other locked up secret treasures
wrapped
in black
tissue paper

my own chosen grief,

unspoken, unwritten,
and resting restrained upon an
invisible line
that lives on my tongue,
it is fresh, imaged, just
a hasty taste away, when it
resurfaces at its own chosen
speed, its own chosen need
to be rebreathed, when least
desired, least required,
**in other
words,
when it chooses to emerge,
& it chooses you,
at the precise right
always the wrongest
time & place

The cold seeps through the beggar's hands,
Clinging for warmth, slowly fading.
The sun is far from him right now,
He cannot chase it.

His sun shined away from him;
For he is no use,
For he is not special,
For he is but a dog.

Obligated to stay and be abandoned;
Abruptly and forced to wait,
With no warmth and sunlight.

The man can be replaced but not the sun.

isolation has its familiarity,
as happiness is a drug
yet not as addicting as
misery.

It’s getting to that time of year;
Where life dulls,
Hearts tighten,
And days just mull through.

Because when the air becomes frigid
And life passes in slow motion;
Dread piles,
Like the dead leaves on the ground.

And when I feel that familiar unnerving tug
Like a leaf that tries to hold on,
As the chill of autumn approaches;
I know that
We’re closing in on another year
Without you,
Mom.

We are interlinked. I feel as though we are interwoven, our souls stirring in the darkness of night, bound together beneath the twinkling stars. Our thoughts are like a spider's web, intricately woven until strong and unbreakable. In the silence that fills the room, we shine with a shared light. Your mind mirrors mine, revealing truths with every glance. We are like Sirius, eternally orbiting each other, each thought you have leaving a trace within me, echoing deep in my sacred space. As we drift through time, our hearts forge a single rhythm, sharing the same heartbeat, an endless dance with no end. When you dream in REM, I feel them within me, and your laughter fills my being with joy. We speak in whispers, in silent notes, hardly needing words at all. Our love is a boat floating forever on a vast ocean, each wave carrying us forward. I feel every emotion with you - your joy, your hidden pain. I wipe away your tears with my thumb, feeling them as my own. The love we share is boundless, like an infinite ocean, and we sail together endlessly. Every breath I take carries a piece of you, every step I make in the sunlight casts your shadow beside me. In your embrace, I find wholeness, and our hearts beat together in perfect harmony. We need no words when we're together; all we need is each other. With every heartbeat, our worlds merge into one. All fears vanish when I gaze into your eyes, where I see the universe laid out before me. This connection is deep and true, and I am forever lost in thoughts of you. It’s as if we act as one, sharing the same thoughts, actions, and feelings. Even if our story were to end, nothing could break the bond we have. We are interlinked.

Time. Slow down just for a moment. I’m chasing after you, desperate not to be left behind. Every second slips through my fingers, no matter how hard I try to hold on. I beg for more, but you only drift further away, gripping my collar as if to drag me onward, ready to let go and leave me behind if I hesitate. Life rushes me through unfamiliar doors, past places I can’t recognize, shedding pieces of myself along the way. Each tick of the clock stirs my fears, a reminder of all that’s slipping away. Hours vanish in the span of a blink. I’m trying, pushing forward, stumbling blindly through the years, fighting to become someone better, grasping for strength. I’m finally seeing my faults, glimpsing my chance to grow, struggling to make up for the seconds wasted and the opportunities missed. But how am I supposed to heal when you haunt my every step? Just one moment, that’s all I need, to catch my breath, to mend the cracks, to become who I long to be. But my pleas go unanswered as you run faster, slipping out of reach. The nights echo with your ticking, a metronome of loss. Dreams once within reach now lie shattered. Can we pause, even briefly? Just let me stand still as you rush by. I need more of you, Time, to keep learning, to keep trying. But somehow, I know there’s not much left.

Two poets, each with a distinct soul, shape similar sentiments in different forms. He dreams in paragraphs, broad and expansive, like clouds stretching across an endless sky. His words dive deep, exploring the hidden caverns of life’s stories. She, in contrast, dreams in lines, each one crashing with the precision of a wave. Every word is chosen with care, her stanzas offering brief yet vivid glimpses of a heartbeat. Her verses flow like a gentle whisper, artfully capturing emotions on display. Their forms may be distinct, yet their themes converge: love, loss, and longing, woven into words. They share their work openly, baring their hearts in a space where emotions find resonance. Each sentence pulses with passion, laughter, and stolen glances, their connection sparked from the very beginning. Together, they transform the stillness of night into shared moments, each word a bridge into the other’s world. As they read each other’s lines, each word becomes a cherished fragment. Their hearts, poured onto the page, collide and merge within the ink of their souls. Two poets, entwined, seek to understand the intricate design of love, its gentle, complex beauty. Each line written, every paragraph crafted, reveals their shared exploration through the labyrinth of love and uncertainty. Hand in hand beneath the starlit sky, they craft a story uniquely theirs, blending two beautiful voices into one. Who could have foreseen it? A poet of paragraphs, a poet of lines, falling in love with a beauty all their own.