I dug my fingers into the corsage I left at my bedside
To see if somewhere deep inside the brittle rose
It might still be alive.
It crumbled to dust under my sharp nails.
You can’t say that you
don’t hate me, then add a “but…”
No. “But…” implies hate.
Gulls waver on the dulcet ocean
When the tide is out and the miles of water
Remind me of a big, dirty pool
Barely flickering any light in my direction
But I still close my eyes
And let my skin drink it in from the shoreline.
Sand combs my spine as I shift into the dying Sun.
It’s falling over the horizon
With the sedated, steady pace
Of the ship sunk by my loose lips
And my fast hands
Which played my personal, pitiful violin.
I hate the way it feels when the ocean’s alone.
There’s a desert island under my feet
Despite the city springing up behind me.
I come here because we never did, but
It somehow still makes me think of you
Like Boston Market and Austin Powers on a Saturday night
Or each and every time I look in the mirror
And see the smile lines you left me.
This is another old one that I stumbled across today. It’s a lot different than the kind of stuff I do anymore, what with the dialogue and rhyme and such.
And his familiar shadow runs to catch up with her.
It wasn’t a question, but rather an answer.
“Where is he?”
“Just tell me.”
Car exhaust creates a room in which they are alone.
She hates him.
Cattail brown stubble on skin white as bone.
“What happened to him?”
A regretful tear.
“He hurt you…”
Anger lashes from her glare with fiery chagrin.
You were right.
He wasn’t the one.”
Sarcasm chills like ice tracing the skin.
He says “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not.” She spats.
“Well what do you want from me?
I’m still in love with you, you know,
I can’t pretend not to be.”
She unleashes new flames,
“The way he said your name
Like he was so damn sure
That you were the reason I
Couldn’t love him anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
Her arms raise,
“You won’t let go!”
“I said I never would.”
“That was too long ago.
He said I was still in love with you.
Still drawn to your light.”
He offers one word, “And?”
“And was he right?”
It’s nearly the lazy morning
And I find a new way home
Against the mountain wind.
My skin begs for better cover.
The lock welcomes the key
And whispers “when did you
Become such a night owl?”
The oak bedroom furniture
Feels awkward and alone.
(The dresser gets worried
When the bed is left empty.)
My dress falls to the floor
And finally breathes again.
I slide into dawn in cotton
My arms are climbing roots
Tunneling till my hands bloom.
I welcome the sight of stitches
Instead of arms of porcelain bones.
Northeast, the window meets
The shy profile of daylight’s smile
Coy. Like the day I met you.
I have something you haven’t seen
Hidden. Tucked up my sleeve.
Three friends are standing in a room with no windows.
They would sit, but there are no chairs.
“We need a plan of action,” Reason (the tallest of the three) suggests.
“Or else we waste emotion on just feeling,” Adventure (with a wild grass voice) concurs.
“We do our best work with a broken heart,” Memory (unforgettable and meticulous) remembers.
Adventure pounds the wrinkled wall. “We have to get back on the bike.”
Memory reminds, “we never learned to ride a bike.”
“Because they’re terrifying!” Reason reasons, “physicists can’t figure out why people can ride them, you know.”
Adventure sighs “I wanna know what it feels like.”
There’s no clock to tick, but every second or so
There’s an echoey thump sounding
From somewhere floors below.
“Maybe it’s best we don’t do anything,” Reason reconsiders. “No decision
Prevents bad decisions.”
“Bad decisions, bad decisions,” Memory repeats itself, “like the rebound moment with the postcore drummer who cared about postcore?”
“-or the statistician stuffed in the sweater vest-”
“-or the lip ringed barista at the Starbucks on Lattimore,” Adventure smirks like a warm inhale. “Whatever happened to him?”
“He took a backseat to the Daniel Radcliffe lookalike from American Politics. Understandably,” states Reason.
“There’s a Rupert Grint doppelganger at work,” Memory muses, “only less ginger-like.”
“Less ginger-like?” Adventure poses.
“His hair is more an auburn or mahogany than a REAL red.”
“What do we think?” Reason asks. “Knock out two-thirds of the Golden Trio?”
“And end up here again?”
They all squirm. Mahogany-haired Rupert Grint feels like a ghost floating in the round ceiling.
They all question.
“Maybe we should stop living in the past,” says Memory.
“Maybe we should act on impulse,” says Reason.
“Maybe we should stand still,” says Adventure.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” says the room.
I’m looking for those harsh words that describe you.
Fake. Static. Caught.
The bass drum beats in the back of my throat.
You roll your “R’s,”
Like the echoing snare.
And the steady Toms repeat each other
“Now. Now. Now.”
I find myself saying “I hate this” without thinking
The gentle hiss
of the Hihat.
is the crash
on the ride cymbal.
Calling out “the end.”