sometimes,
love’s flame
is a fire that spills forth
as the sky cracks:
dawn’s light.
sometimes,
love’s flame
is a lamp burned.
its oil:
midnight.
love’s labors:
so oft
in those liminal spaces.
the heart’s torch:
the bravest tea light.
this love:
it is a quiet courage.
it has
no hall of fame.
it is
a gift
with no wrapping.
you feed on it—
you cannot see it.
you live on it—
you cannot feel it.
sometimes,
the truest loves
are unspoken,
& unseen,
but lived:
in the shadows.
a numinous force, light itself, overtaking the senses, the nervous system, the whole of your being, electrified by something so pure//tidal waves behind the gentlest touch.
sit with your sorrow:
it can’t hurt you.
you can.
sit with your fear:
it won’t hurt you.
you can.
sit with yourself.
turn your back?
you’ll stab it.
sit with yourself.
the most basic form of respect:
bearing witness.
sit.
there was a look in your eyes
somehow… dead,
yet more alive
than i thought possible.
it looked like
you stared each of your fears
straight in the eye–
then, snakeskin:
they were shed.
it looked like
all that died
were the bits of you
that kept you from living.
i pray
you’ll keep me around,
if only to teach me how.
empty arms,
empty heart,
mocked
by the ticking clock:
it tallies
every wasted heartbeat.
my body is stone.
this
is waking sleep paralysis.
some unseen demon
sits upon my chest.
i scream at my limbs:
whose hands
are clasped over their ears?
betrayed by all:
even this
still-alive corpse.
some lives are death
long before the coffin—
some are ash
long before the urn—
this,
this is one of them.
Sober living: it is about learning all the secret ways that exist to get drunk that they don’t tell you about. Love letters with a sweetheart: there is no greater wine. Breaths timed with the sea’s lazy waves: what intoxication. Dancing without a care, not a drop of alcohol in the veins: it’s a form of nakedness, nothing more liberating. Spirits, spirits, spirits: they are everywhere.
you mustn’t ever love
something without claws,
you mustn’t ever love
what cannot bite.
a hand that feeds
should be ready
to bleed.
there’s no such thing
as love
that draws no blood.
only shut mouths
do not bite —
only in silence
are edges smoothed.
honesty: it is serrated.
love too.
there is no other way.
Silence, the blank canvas upon which the noise of the universe is painted.
The incessant chatter of a restless mind: perhaps a fluttering bird escaping the ground’s grim realities. Silence, it is presence, even with the ache.
Only when I was connected with myself could I truly connect with another. I couldn’t connect with anyone without first connecting with myself.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 