Sunday, September 15, 2013


.she strays.

.gently now
you've tugged at that hand a long time
breathed sweet, careful manipulations into that ear
long winters and summers longer still
built the bridge you'd have her cross, with matchsticks
and she has begun to move

find her at her weakest
comfort her with their absence
catch her in your black cloud as she sinks
but she woke up in a dream in his arms again
you are inside her songs
he keeps getting in the way
her dreams are getting in the way
her slender hand is slipping away
not just yet

she will belong to you
if only because they don’t know any better
follow her trail with the smile
he took from her
it leads back to something else
not to you
she would let you sink into her
he still gets in the way
she will belong to you
another summer?
not if you have your way

her face held close, close to yours
your hold strong enough that she can't breathe
that's all it takes
her eyes widen with the ember glow from yours
this restless work of art, forever incomplete
no more desolation every time she wakes
The pieces within her shift in answer to yours
she has fallen

and she will sleep no more.

Monday, April 29, 2013

.last winter.

.i was lost in the snow again last night, in a strange little town. like a wolf cub abandoned by its pack. seeing another woman change into something more suited for walking on ice, i slipped off the shoes that you hate so much and watched them change color in my hands. meanwhile, my feet left shapes in the snow. the strange thing is, you were carrying me before this. one of the boys in the red shirt was angry with us. but you were carrying me, and then i was lost. abandoned, i walked away. i felt less out of place than i do on a route i take every day. then again, this was a dream.

.ever since, things have been strange.

.this morning when she came to sit beside me and her arm grazed mine, i imagined the near electric blue from around her eyes pass between us. i wonder if she did, too. 
i wonder what will become of our little world that i love so much and yet continually sabotage to the brink of it shattering in my palms. the problem is that i don't remember loving it when i'm in destruction-mode. as hard as i try, i can't bring back alive feelings a week old. my angel of doom. becomes unreal to me. just a shell of something i made up in a dream. and no matter how much i tell myself it's all real, it isn't real right now. and i don't know what to do with that. 
.i don't know what to do with this pen and this paper on my lap. might as well make little imperfect aeroplanes, set them on fire, watch them fly and celebrate.
celebrate everything in the universe that's burning up. maybe because there's nothing else left to celebrate. maybe because it's just easier to do than putting out the flames and salvaging what one can. i'm not sure which.