Tag: spilt ink

familiar stranger
new friend
tell me of the time we crossed
once before
under the wisteria.
i’ll meet you there– halfway
between the poppies
and forever.
your voice a nocturne,
notes i’ve never fallen asleep
to before: i cannot
quite tell where it is
within me that you dwell.
do you sing a song of this
universe, or one of
dreams?

magis quam ante // a.s.m

for the first time, 
i feel a different kind
of alive. 

something is sprouting
within me: a hunger for
the taste of your skin
on my lips, your warmth 
beside me.

i’ve always used a
fork and knife, never
indulged the animal
inside.

but tonight you look
so good.
tonight, i think
i could.

full moon // a.s.m

you can jump out of an airplane but
be too scared to ask your waitress
for ketchup.

there is no method to the madness
we are. 

but i know you will make room
in your heart for the things
you are on fire for, because
those are what keep you living.
when you want something badly enough,
you will face your fears for it.

you can do the thing: i promise you will conquer your fears for the things you love // a.s.m

it was my first word
at thirteen months old
and my first word to you when
i met you on the train to Zurich.
do you remember? we huddled
next to each other in our seats
and with warm breath whispered
about our dreams
while the rain hit the windows.
this was your seventh stop
on a journey to see the world,
i was looking for a corner to call home.
 

excitement numbed our lips, teeth
hit teeth and
we laughed
bumping noses 
warm breath
warm breath and
you could almost feel the magnetic
field around us in
that little corner of the world as
it rolled past in our windows.

hello // a.s.m

dear little egg, you’re
going to open your eyes
for the first time in a white
room, not knowing that 
my childhood home is now
underwater. and when 
you are older, i will let
you run in the back yard
without shoes on, but
you will never know the comfort
of sinking into healthy
soil. you will never understand
what it means to make a mark on
the earth that does not hurt
it. 
seven years’ worth of leaves
will still be decaying, and 
i will not know how to explain 
where they came from. 
i will not know how to explain
to you that other beings used to
live here, too, or
that there was once another planet
underneath a green canopy and
in autumn, the skies would 
bathe in fire.

i hope we’ll be living with windmills // a.s.m

inhale. exhale. 
inhale oxygen. exhale carbon dioxide. 
inhale oxygen exhale carbon dioxide.
inhale oxygen inhale carbon dioxide exhale oxygen inhale carbon dioxide inhale
oxygen exhale carbon dioxide exhale oxygen exhale carbon dioxide inhale carbon dioxide inhale oxygen inhale
carbon dioxide exhale
oxygen exhale
carbon dioxide inhale oxygen
exhale carbon dioxide exhale oxygen.

the earth’s breath is getting warmer // a.s.m

with her, it’s like art. 
it’s wanting to know
every single detail about her
down to what she tastes like,
down to what she sounds like
when she’s begging.
down to her dirty little secrets.
down to the parts of herself
one can only uncover beneath the
sheets.

sex // a.s.m

i found you
three days after you died.
i walked into your office and
found you hunched over your desk,
your face deteriorating
into your coffee mug.

i picked you up and threw you
over my shoulder.
your knuckles dragged on the sidewalk
the entire walk home.

we wrapped you
in all your favorite scarves and
put you in a coffin
filled with salt-water taffy.
while they sang ‘der voghormia,’ i growled,
and the sky echoed me.

i growled
at your scarves and your
salt-water taffy and your
face. for the first time
in years, you looked peaceful.
i growled and growled until they
started shoveling the dirt in.

the sky boomed on the drive home.
i saw your face in the windshield,
contorted into a sneer, your eyes
glazed over, your nostrils flared.

your face in the ground,
so pale, so silent, so peaceful.
so peaceful.

der voghormia // a.s.m