the breaking of things: in parts
the bouquet stain rests on the ceiling
still we never look up
why should we when the past is a liar
the petals stain your eye, redder than ever
a heart swallows stems and thorns hungry like that
or sad enough to
a long, long time ago
for us, could be months, even seconds
our time moves in waves, crashing, plates breaking,
rushing into glass doors, fistulas, silence
a long, long time ago
i stopped bleeding
into the night you ran, i watched you from the window, from behind a peach gauze fabric
the color of our love-making ghost garb, the un-wedding gown
you didn’t run
but i almost missed your body as it blended with shadow, the dark tunnel into
which you fled, into which you will be reborn
a cat licks my face searching for the last vestige
we are almost identical she purrs against the moon
points to a chart that says all water signs touch earth, the bay sexing in natural resolve
you cradled my face in your hands for the last time
sleep laid us heavy on, between above as below
your nail peeling back just enough to be the cure
the butter curling of your face against mine
each slip of something through your fingers
each street we step on like a vein –bruised
the mind rummages boxes rooms, vena cava, artery
you squatting over yet another suitcase
zipping, a cloud –the size of our mutual existence,
covers the entire sky
who are you but a version of me, penis-ready
ready-mades, we’ve fixed against bone to make flesh, we’ve fixed into flesh
to sift out tears Portishead version of a song we could never become
a house full of branches does not make a tree
here a root once touched foot, clung here a boy once loved a girl
or other way around
upside-down leaves fall, leave, fall, leave, just leave
the wood door pushes closed the wind of a body
we once build
the corridor echoes
eleven-eleven, gloom kisses itself into a twin bed
pairings of an unpair
the sheets have thinned all the way out, the threads won’t even hold others –that’s how weak.
not for hanging out a window or around a neck, not for pretending to be a non-ghost impression.
we are angry at this junction, the crossroads and all the pebbles giving us mixed signals –stillness.
the mouth forms words quicker than the heart realizes broken, we are foils of each other, unfoiling.
how can the songbird keep the sun at bay, what of the stars that ease shoulders into dilated night.
where lines on your hands connect, there i rest, where they diverge small hexes illuminate dusky.
empty is not the absence of body, but energy, slowing peddling backwards as if alpha in retrograde.
silence is a sound, mostly morningish when i search for the rustling of your body clinging to sleep.
letters sent, cursive script pining for a courtship we never had, letters cry, romanticizing envelopes.
ideally the letters would contain as many syllables as a heartache can hold –inky fingers scratch away.