What was I saying?
I don't know.

Your kiss has the same effect
On me as the act of walking

Into another room just to forget
What for.

stuck, sprawling from the city, making tracks
still calling.  the speed lights have stopped,
now their just stalling as the moon on the back
traces a drawing like pencils
experience the feeling of falling.

i've corrupted youth far past use,
and it was only for the thought of you
one last hit, a final fix or two
as i tried to find your love in
a melting spoon

i've got my dose, i can get some sleep
but without you I've lost my dreams
and tomorrow, as the sunlight screams
i'll start all over, and not remember anything

They say I suffer from retrograde cash flow
and it is afflicting me with anterograde anxiety
so they let me go
bleeding money from every pore
leaving a red paper trail behind me

A memetic virus of unprecedented scale
has everyone pale and empty-pocketed
their haunted eyes reflecting
the fear of an exofiduciary reaction

The resultant melancholy
proves infectious.

My sad-sack coworkers,
drained from the same numismatic disease
seek alternative medicine
but I am hooked on the slow copper drip
and wait patiently for the bag to empty before
I even realize I should have
seen another doctor
before
my internet support's been pulled.

A weathered door of a face.
Her house, captured in a bubble,
on Anterograde Lane.
In the dark; in the corner,
her leg, scarred in cursive, propped,
like the whole of her frailty; on a
budget wheelchair, second hand.

A boy, brand new,
who will soon be old enough
to forget what happened.
What mother? On the road,
smeared with hot, gushing
jet-black highway blood;
encompassing the coagulated
being of what was, and, only
in hushed talks, a mother.
What daughter?

How old are you, this time?
These words slip out of a smile.
And she wishes she could hold him
-- but her frayed fingers fight back,
with every twitch trying to touch.
Delayed comfort becoming devastation
-- 4 years-old. She can hardly believe it.

Pain eats her grocery bag arms,
bulbous in her bones like
confused locusts, frenzied.  
The boy's eyes are a deep brown
nutrient-rich soil, perfectly fertile;
needing to be cared for and grown.

Forever, she could, protect him from
The Lurking that killed his mother.
At the very least, for however many
remaining years. Three. Five. Eight.
Becoming a lantern before his sight;
guiding him from dangerous design
drifting between trees, in the dark.

loved sensitivity

embraced & accepted.

no apologies,

only for the wrong
for the right reasons.

october, since.

when will he be well? . . .

will my absence be the cure?...

my distance the anecdote...

("no one can..."
"only i can")

for now i only b r e a t h e . . .

simplify, life.

live. preoccupy.

be myself.
(by myself.)

i will be a stranger for you...
i will make you see
that i am strong enough.

christmas, i think of you.

new year, no you...

when will i wake from this comatose

scale 3

"i love you" in ASL
but you never notice...

words diminish truth. actuality.
leading to our very own fatality...

words, a bleak & silent mid-winter for now. . .

reduced.

anterograde amnesia.

...how i long for a different state
of consciousness...

if i felt fervent fondness, would you? . . .

no...i tell myself.

i preoccupy.

terrified of the outcome...
what is supposed to come of this?
i ask but receive only hate.

"*******...easy."
"you're right. i am good at walking away."

"i'm not going anywhere as long as you still want me here..."
i reach out into the dark but i can't find your hand there...

ghosts disguised as words
haunt me
waking
or
sleeping.

years will pass.
you will return to wellness.
i won't say a word.
i will listen to every word
that falls from the lips
i've longed to press softly
against mine...
only to hear
that they're saying that
they do not want my love after all...

will i want the comatose?. . .

yes...i tell myself.

if i will not have you, i will not have anyone.

i preoccupy;

puffy sleepy brown eyes read millions of pages, beige.
billions of words, carefully chosen.
my feet worn yet hungry for many trails unexplored.
paint strokes left out to dry in the warmth of the summer sun...

you are the reason
i sometimes write two dots instead of three..

i have forgotten the sound of your voice...
but still i remember your caramel hair.

i squeezed your hand tightly
as our lips remained
ever so slightly parted...
sleepy eyes closed..
those flushed cheeks...
i'd give everything to feel warm against mine
once more...

do you remember it the way i do?. . .

will you remember me? . . .

i sit patiently
impatiently.

the attic is dusty,

i have been dusting
year after year.

i will make room for you.

i will love you so hard..

or i will withhold it,
lest you look through the windows
you will know...
but will you feel it?
will you want to feel it?

surviving.
thriving.
surviving.

i hear your sighs...
one look into those
heathered baby blue eyes &
you never have to say a word...

some day,
i will fall out of
this siesta.

bright-eyed,
a euphoric covering yet sadness simultaneously lives beneath.
heated flush yet bones bitten with chill within.

right person, wrong time.

a day
not soon
i lie to myself...

take your time
but hurry . . .
and wake me
from this comatose sleep. . .