“You can’t miss anyone while you’re sleeping.”
I closed my eyes. That isn’t true.
I’ve spent hundreds of years searching for you.
Missing you in valleys, in dungeons, in endless time
Every single night in the dark mazes of my mind.
I can lay me down to sleep, aye, and even dream
But missing you is a longing that pervades even sleep.
it sings in tones of spider-thread
it wanders up and down the Pain…
The song is caught in a timeless place,
where the hurting worsened ’til it grew a face;
and the face is blank and its eyes are dead;
& wilted blossoms frame the head;
beautiful, but also gone.
just like us.
i wrote us a song.
I see you in my dreams, the ones of day and bright
I smile in my sleep
When nights are gilded with your light.
Your eyes are vast oceans
Deep slumbering old pines
My home is within that forest,
Among my evergreens.
Someday I’ll look back and be astounded
Someday I’ll reminisce and be amazed
at all the ways my life has changed;
tears shed for deaths we all regret —
friendships, friends, desires… dead.
Someday I’ll wonder just what happened
Where all the sunlit years have gone
My heartbeat then will go to sleep
my words will breathe no more.
I long for absolution from the starrer of the skies
the one who galaxied creation
and all the colors in your eyes.
Let my skin cease to glow
the day my colors fade.
and otherwise my spirit grow
in love and mercy night and day.
When will I cease being able to repress
The feelings I imprison, I do not redress
Your heart when you spill it like ink in my hands
I stare at my fingers bleeding your love like sand
And wonder how long it will last.
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.
What is this emotion?
Not quite longing, not quite regret
Not quite sadness, and yet
I miss you.