across a land
awaits asea
afraid again
Along a stream
ahead it moves
above and over
away from you
Friday, March 20, 2015
Pre-fixed
A heart apart
across a land
awaits asea
afraid again
Along a stream
ahead it moves
above and over
away from you
across a land
awaits asea
afraid again
Along a stream
ahead it moves
above and over
away from you
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Missing You
Missing you felt different in the daytime.
At night it felt like an avalanche where no single snowflake thinks is responsible for. And when the light met the darkness, it had friends. It went train-spotting, only drawing the middle part of the vehicle. It tucked its short hair behind its ear and inhaled its first cigarette of the day. One inch from the platform, one inch from the heart. It used to feel awkward watching its parents kiss when it was little. Now its parents don't hold hands, and only call each other by their full names. Missing-you walked a straight line after drinking the entire bottle of its favorite white wine through its teeth, and couldn't speak after that. It put its hand over the brightest star that night because the sky didn't know its name. The next morning all the lost boys from the village came to see the light shining through the back of its hand. It is the Polaris, it is celestial. It ran wild. Before it left, it said, "Pick a card, any card." Before it left, it told me after three years we wouldn't look at each other when we're talking, we'd turn the lights off when we kissed. It ran wild. It was claw marks scarred across the sky. It was frozen heart with a laced rim. It was what the funeral songs were humming about. It was melting candle wax, high altitudes, the goldfish that failed to force its stomach down when it's dying. It ran wild and it was what cigarettes tasted like.
Missing you feels different in the daytime. Missing you feels different in the nighttime. Missing you feels different. It feels different now.
It comes home sometimes. It comes home sober. It doesn't yell, doesn't bruise my wrists, doesn't throw me down the stairs. It feels like the back of my mother's hand on my forehead, a new-born fawn's second stomp on the ground after falling. It speaks like a seashell to my ear, decrescendo waves, echoing back and forth. It cooks me breakfast and licks its finger to check for saltiness. It is bare-foot. It walks here and there. It caresses the cat. It ties a pencil to the plant in our balcony that is bending over and backwards. It sings and dances. It is steady and quiet. It says the moon is always the size of your thumb wherever you go. It is celestial. A heavenly body. A planet.
Missing you feels different from missing anyone else.
It lives.
It breathes.
At night it felt like an avalanche where no single snowflake thinks is responsible for. And when the light met the darkness, it had friends. It went train-spotting, only drawing the middle part of the vehicle. It tucked its short hair behind its ear and inhaled its first cigarette of the day. One inch from the platform, one inch from the heart. It used to feel awkward watching its parents kiss when it was little. Now its parents don't hold hands, and only call each other by their full names. Missing-you walked a straight line after drinking the entire bottle of its favorite white wine through its teeth, and couldn't speak after that. It put its hand over the brightest star that night because the sky didn't know its name. The next morning all the lost boys from the village came to see the light shining through the back of its hand. It is the Polaris, it is celestial. It ran wild. Before it left, it said, "Pick a card, any card." Before it left, it told me after three years we wouldn't look at each other when we're talking, we'd turn the lights off when we kissed. It ran wild. It was claw marks scarred across the sky. It was frozen heart with a laced rim. It was what the funeral songs were humming about. It was melting candle wax, high altitudes, the goldfish that failed to force its stomach down when it's dying. It ran wild and it was what cigarettes tasted like.
Missing you feels different in the daytime. Missing you feels different in the nighttime. Missing you feels different. It feels different now.
It comes home sometimes. It comes home sober. It doesn't yell, doesn't bruise my wrists, doesn't throw me down the stairs. It feels like the back of my mother's hand on my forehead, a new-born fawn's second stomp on the ground after falling. It speaks like a seashell to my ear, decrescendo waves, echoing back and forth. It cooks me breakfast and licks its finger to check for saltiness. It is bare-foot. It walks here and there. It caresses the cat. It ties a pencil to the plant in our balcony that is bending over and backwards. It sings and dances. It is steady and quiet. It says the moon is always the size of your thumb wherever you go. It is celestial. A heavenly body. A planet.
Missing you feels different from missing anyone else.
It lives.
It breathes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)