Peace
On the operating table.
I wasn’t very faithful,
But ever since Death’s call—
I fear. for my life.
   God save us all.

Adieu, adieu, adieu.
A tremor hits the old room,
Antiques and glasses crash,
Dust folds and my heart.
   It's all gone.

you,
you get me.
like a cold whisper wrapped in chrome,
a sharp promise in a stranger’s home.
you don’t knock.
you don’t wait.
you slip in,
like silence disguised as fate.

you found me,
where ache sang loud,
where sleep ran dry,
where love and connection died,
and nothin' was allowed
but pain—
and the desire
to make it stop.

so I picked you up.
slammed hope down with the plunger,
felt the fire hum
as it rolled like thunder
through my veins—
and everything went
quiet.

and in that quiet,
he was there..
in the burn, the gasp for air,
his ghost pulled up a chair—
like we were finally real.
not just words.
not in time.
just this..
this ritual.
this ruin.

maybe it’s grief.
maybe it’s love.
maybe I miss him enough
to hurt myself to get close
just one last time.

you,
you see the real me.
no mask, no dilution,
raw, like nerve exposed.
you don’t judge.
you don’t speak.
you sink in deep.
you let me bleed.
you gave me peace.
you gave me space
to dream of some place
soft and slow—
between the devil and death's
kind relief—
anywhere but here.

you left tracks like poetry.
the monster stirred
but i didn't worry,
didn't breathe a word,
you brought me back,
for seconds at a time.
in that blur, in that high,
feel the pull from within the tide,
i sign the song of the the needle’s rhyme.

that’s the madness—
the comfort in staying sad.
found home in loneliness.
you aren’t the high.
you’re the hand that held it.
the lie
that knew I’d always sell it
to myself.
time and time again.

o needle,
you elegant reaper,
you plastic preacher,
you quiet sleeper,
you stitched a father
to his son
in blood—
not bond—
and called it love.

but I will reach again,
with my hands undone.
one more breath,
one more run,
still, every time I wonder,
if the needle’s already won.

I grew up with soldiers—
their boots a lullaby,
their grief stitched into uniforms
they never took off.

I learned how to die
a long time ago—
not in flesh,
but in forgetting how to be soft.

We played with shrapnel like toys,
measured time
by the distance between sirens.

And still—
I carry their silence
like a medal
no one pinned on me.

F*ck you,
Cancer,

for taking away
the possibility

of the mother
I will never

ever get to
have now.

-7/13/2022.

Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:

to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…

in summary too,
here is where,
I thank you.



nml
9/12/25
5:15am

I’m driving and your playlist is on,
The one that always makes me think of you.
Usually I’d sing along,
But tonight I’m too broken to.
Six years gone and I still feel
Like I’m cheating if I try to move on.

I've been going through the motions,
Trying to convince myself that I'll be fine.
But when someone new starts getting close,
I pull back every single time.
Their voice sounds wrong, their laugh's too loud,
Nothing feels the way it should.
Maybe I should just give up,

Stop pretending someone else could fit.
Not that I’m waiting for you—
I just can’t imagine settling for ****.
Every time I meet someone new,
I hold them up against what we had.
And nothing ever comes close,
So maybe being alone isn’t that bad

August is anger
August is despair
August takes me there
To blood
To the flood
August is death
And gloom

It takes me from my room
Violates me
Mocks me
Then puts me away
August makes me pray
August is red
And rage
Gotta get out of this place

August is nothing
But grief
Never a relief
Sadness
Depression
Bargaining
Anger
And acceptance
Well not quite there
August is everywhere
And nowhere

I lose it
In august
I lose it
In months of eight
I'm always late
In summer
It creeps on me
Like drips of sweat
Dripping into my flesh
Burning my veins
Leaving nothing
But my remains

August remains
And it's seeping into
September
Or march
Maybe June
Or July
The 8th month s p r e a d   s
Just like all your lies