I felt again, your presence came
Your warmth renewed, no longer ash
In my arms, not seizing, not shrieking
Soft and living… safe once more
But you are gone. Each new breath, empty morning
You are torn from me fresh, the
Wound never closing.
Will I ever get used to your absence?
WILL I EVER STOP WISHING YOU WEREN’T GONE?
I almost pray you’d stop coming to me
Allow the blood to congeal
But if the only way you can be
Means me weeping over you in my sleep
Then bring me the dreams.
You spoke in whispers and sunlight
You fell in storms and stars.
I saw you among flowers and wind,
One thing you did right
Was you loved my words.
You wanted to hear them
Day and night.
One thing you did wrong
Was you also loved her.
Was she on your mind
While I wrote of you?
Let the words around be a salve, let them soothe
Every step an inky mess, contrived to free me
My heart bleeds. Syllables drop onto the page, the walls
And seep into eyelids, whispers and wounds.
I need them to live, to purify me
Foulness is flung from my hands as I speak
With a swirl of ink, and words, which are born
To die by my hand, thistled and thorned.
broken bits; human beings wonder if
we’ll ever be fixed enough to seem
like heartache is not unraveling
the seams we stitch to break our bonds
funny how we tie those knots
specifically to free ourselves;
and yet the prison remains.
we are cracked and chipped like pottery
the lumpy turtle kilned in third grade;
Pork Chop the pig named by pigtails
and all the in between.
And yet more perfect still are we
than over-fired pottery;
humans were made by divine hands
so no matter how we crush ourselves
we can always be repaired.