rest, you are the sun version 2

"rest, you are the sun" version 2

we sit hand in hand-

outside it snows.

the future remains a fragile thing.

we've built a house of cards. i am

reminded of your lipstick on my collar &

your reflection in my bathroom mirror

when i am alone. when we sleep

our hearts beat the same pattern.

each meaningful

event is marked on a

timeline we'll never see.

every single moment is alive.

our tighly clasped hands give way

to sweaty palms & we look to

one another and say:

"another year, another year"

early November

"early November"

corn fields of dirty gold reflect

the light dripping from clouds.

a boy's dirty feet remind him

that love is a different

color. on this autumn day

it pours and pours. water

sinks deep but is never

truly gone.

in his golden sea, he is

a ship that will never sail.

all roads lead to Heaven

"all roads lead to Heaven"

all roads lead to Heaven.

my cold feet touch

black earth. i

walk & crush flowers.

in angels' eyes i see

no hate. only holes

where memories

flow. her lips apologize

for dragging me through

last November but i

just want to drink from

her cup. no longer does

love protect me, nor release

me. i want to

cease to exist. beneath

the ivy archway i lay a hand

on her taut skin.

i am her keeper.

rest, you are the sun

"rest, you are the sun"

on my bed we sit hand in hand-

outside it snows. it snows. it

snows. inside we've built a house

of cards made of hearts. our future

remains a fragile thing. i am reminded

of your lipstick on my collar, your

reflection in my bathroom mirror

when i am alone. when we sleep

quietly our hearts beat the same

while each meaningful

event is marked on a

timeline we'll never see.

every single moment is alive

just like the two of us. our

clasped hands give way to

sweaty palms & we look to

one another and say:

"another year, another year"

in the lowest light

"in the lowest light"

she will not leave the house today.

her, the daytime poet.

her, the evening statue.

her, the nighttime dead.

bitterly written words

give way to a malice that

never takes shape. & so

her eyes get lost, her

teeth clamor.

a crow sits upon a branch

staring into at her unused

fireplace. it only believes in

omens found in piles of

dead leaves.

she sits unfed and emotionless

staring at an old white willow tree.

a staleness, rather a stillness of

winter air, sits like an irritable

sorrow.

alone she responds to her emptiness,

her fits of decay. as the sleeping stars

lay flat across the sky the dying rays

of sunlight seem useless to her lifeless

eyes. her pen scribbles the traits of a

crying thing that will never have a name.

white halls

"pulp"

i told you part with me,

your story will remain the

same. the world will not come

crashing down & notes will

not fold themselves.

i can still see where the margin

breaks. a life type faced in black

font. don't panic-

wake up every morning &

kill the same dream.

& when i'm gone i'll become

more streamlined; rather

i will speak in the way paper

folds. my poems will be as

flowers next to hospital beds.

paper are hearts hung while a

piano carries on. without you i

will bring back the dead.

dotted lines

"dotted lines"

years from now you'll write me a letter

on my birthday, explaining

that you lack a reflection in wet pavement.

just tell me your emotions have left you,

but in simple arrangements & less metaphor.

i'll write you back:

to let you know nothing has

changed- that my walls are covered

in portraits of people i will never be.

even though you've left

we're connected by a string.

in the middle of the day,

i speak to your ghost in an empty room.

i left the cadence of your words packed

away in a box, tied with a ribbon.