There is a void here
She logically stated as though
she were contemplating a
Painter’s incomplete masterpiece
She gazed upward to find
Tinsel pouring from thunderclouds like
God’s perpetually mourning eyes
What is real? she
Mused, bending trees, path and
Buildings before and behind her.
The passage of months, she knew, was
All that could warp her memories of
Denim, cigarettes- most of all
Skin and dawn’s light
A mutual equilibrium was being reached
Give and take-mend, only to break
She hoped ambition and guilt would be
Catalysts to elements only measured in
Half Lives
The sun rising and setting on
Futile stars and gauzy hope.
She could see moonbeams
Clinging to Boathouse awnings
She would never climb again
The airy timbre of the tree’s voice said,
Meanings are multiplying
Squeeze the seconds endowed on so few,
For this motion will never end
Hearts stopped for the girl with the
Silver shoes, who strolled upon the pond
Still, be my dearest, precious dove,
Even as the swan lifts into the noonday
Eighth Floor South
My heartrending crocodile tears burst forth at the sight of the drunken sheen in your eyes. I never know how it will happen, but it always does. Holding onto the promise of forever makes me miss the naïveté I so quickly squelched. Don’t you miss it too, even though I kissed you and lied to you? Those fluorescent moments were made of impossible affection, the kind that no one reasonable invests in. This achy sensation isn’t going away even once the cherry sun has set over the silent mountains and you have long forgotten my dark hair and eyes lying on your pillow. Drowning in misery and futile hope has never been so pleasant and welcome and deserved as it is in this hour. Who can understand our minds? Mine, so contradictory, guilty and pleading, and yours, mysterious and obscured. Your inhibition erased all conviction I held yesterday, the one that said it was over forever. I know it still is, but being ready to believe it is a different undertaking.
“It never rains when you want it to.”
Cautiously, quietly, stealthily, I will seek your thoughts and dreams. While I sleep, moonlight lands on your young face and clinging to you has never been such an inviting concept as it is with rain falling outside the windows of my subconscious. This moment’s photograph is gray and black, but you are gold and green, a wealth of youth and promise. I am but tainted and scarlet, the wind blows from the south fanning the flame of my too-late passion that will do nothing but consume.
Your hands and smell and skin and eyes yanked the tears right out of me, as you endowed a new emotion upon me. Forgiveness is priceless, and earning what you have given me will take months. You tell me I’m beautiful, you tell me that you loved me once, though I am a stranger. People are what life is about, but a giant storm has washed part of you away this summer. Your words have changed my stained skin from red to pure cream, though I don’t quite believe what I see. Can’t I help retrieve the crystal pieces of your heart, the one that I smashed in a drunken stupor? It may never be, but then again, the appearance of green spring is quite shocking to those who have endured endless dreary hours of winter. Either way, what I am sure of is this: this sensation may grow, change or diminish, but it will always exist so long as my chest maintains its erratic rise and fall.
8-9 September 2005
“It never rains when you want it to.”
Cautiously, quietly, stealthily, I will seek your thoughts and dreams. While I sleep, moonlight lands on your young face and clinging to you has never been such an inviting concept as it is with rain falling outside the windows of my subconscious. This moment’s photograph is gray and black, but you are gold and green, a wealth of youth and promise. I am but tainted and scarlet, the wind blows from the south fanning the flame of my too-late passion that will do nothing but consume.
Your hands and smell and skin and eyes yanked the tears right out of me, as you endowed a new emotion upon me. Forgiveness is priceless, and earning what you have given me will take months. You tell me I’m beautiful, you tell me that you loved me once, though I am a stranger. People are what life is about, but a giant storm has washed part of you away this summer. Your words have changed my stained skin from red to pure cream, though I don’t quite believe what I see. Can’t I help retrieve the crystal pieces of your heart, the one that I smashed in a drunken stupor? It may never be, but then again, the appearance of green spring is quite shocking to those who have endured endless dreary hours of winter. Either way, what I am sure of is this: this sensation may grow, change or diminish, but it will always exist so long as my chest maintains its erratic rise and fall.
8-9 September 2005
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