weak    rise    scars    spent    breeze    lungs    spirit    eat    teeth    car    shine    nature    died    veins    neck    top    moving    sat   loves    dry

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the spent breeze rises up, moving,

****** into, ******* up air in our lungs
but yet still! the spirit weak,
the teeth useless chewing,
dry words mashing,
no eat, just pasty

the scars shine
like veins protruding from the top of a man’s neck,
looking like holes in a  rusted car that can’t never
shine no more,
once the breeze stops moving

he sat there while he slow died,
not moving,
nature and his loves
and his
skin slow dry texturized,
desiccating

done.

the spent breeze rises up, moving on...

I have a picture of you
tucked away in a book,
which one,
I cannot remember.

I miss the softness of your smile,
the way I would watch you
meet the same old
boring world with
a simple delight.

You have the cutest little
button nose,
you would say,
as I giggled my way across the
mangy avocado green sofa,
an innocence I still
strive to
remember.

A seventh grade dance photograph
of me hung in the same spot,
chair after chair,
on the white texturized wall
until the day you died,

A faded silver toned cross with
clustered ruby red beads
hung on an old nylon string
around your neck,
also until the day you died.

I stare at both and wonder
if you can forgive me

I won't go rummaging the bookshelf
in search of the only print
of you I call my own.

I'll hang this cross somewhere in
my line of vision,
think about the times we met before,
the ones in this form,
I cannot remember.

I'll move from this butterfly shaped
cushion in the corner of my room
out into the kitchen,
pour steaming water of over
freshly ground beans,
whip eggs with a fork like you
used to do,
eat,
go about my day.

I'll wait patiently --
almost without thinking,
for you
to fall into my lap
as I pull an old text from the
dusty wooden shelf.

Then,
and only then,
will I sit and dream of the day
our physical hearts
emulate
the same space
once more.