i’ve never not wanted to write
about love before,
but every minute
my pen is to this paper
is a thought you have without me,
a smile i may miss,
a lost opportunity to tell you
i love you i love you
i love you.
whispers and giggles
(they never raise their voice).
they never speak louder than
the rain
they are sprouted from.
I. EVACUATION
run
without thinking.
let your feet slap
the pavement. you need
to get out of here before
they burn you alive.
i know it hurts. sometimes
you have to
save yourself first.II. VIRGINITY
no footprints in the snow.
you’ve not yet learned to
not let everyone in.III. BLESSED CHILD
you’ve been vandalized
you throw your body
off of cliffs
so you can know how
it feels to fly.
you’re branded and scarred,
and you only know
how to smile.
the best time to write is when
i’m sorry or sleepy because
the words flow unapologetically–
they do not try so hard to sound good.there is a drum in the front of my brain,
and I don’t know if it’s
because of the rain or the way
the dentist drilled my gums today.it is empty in the house, but too loud
with my mother’s anxieties,
and the air is heavy with tears
that are shed once the lights go out–
shed like room for growth and
thicker walls–
shed like hair, like skin,
to make room for
something new and healthy and strong.what do we shed with our tears?
our weakness? our pain?
i have been waiting.
through skin untouched
and sallow love.
i have been waiting;
i believe
it has been for you.could it be
you are a shadow from
my dreams?
your voice,
where have i heard that
tone?
why does it sound so much
like home?
WEARY TRAVELER FINDS REST
WITHIN THE HEART OF A CHILD:
we are
a miracle the world chortled
at thinking existed, a dream
within a dream.
too far beyond
the imagination, a
hallucination of the heavens.
there is love for you
oozing from betwixt these ribs;
heart so small, love so big.
you moved out of here long ago.
the autumn leaves scrape
the sidewalk and i
remember the first time
you said my name,
the way it rode the October winds.the windows are open
in your old bedroom.
air in one, out the other,
and I wonder if
any of the molecules
sitting on the
empty dresser have been in
your lungs. my heart
seems heavier than these drawers,
hands searching for
something, anything. your scent
in any form
and suddenly
i am standing
in the cul de sac outside
your driveway, watching you write
to me with the flowers
in your garden; breathy lullabies
of roses,
sweet and rotting.
suffocation comes in rainbows
laced with love
crushed between kisses
that draw blood-
red beauty
some of us can only choke
on the breath
of flowers.
there is something holy
in the lines by
your eyes.
heaven exists in between
your front teeth and the way
your lips become
mine.
there is no room for
perfection
while the sun still shines
and the moon glows–
we remain within
light;
the devil does
not exist here.
Silenticel 