we were wrong
on paper;
hell, maybe in real life, too—
but nothing in this world
makes sense
if I’m not with you.
say it— say it,
& tell me you feel
the same way I do.
Tag: poets
-
I stared at the cliff’s edge,
and told myself
I was only going to dip
my feet in—
so tell me:
how am I up to my neck
in absinthe?
lord, help me:
I’m drowning
in obsession,
this liquid spirit,
like the Styx,
my psychic murk,
so acidic—
it burns me, it burns—
so why
do I crave it?
the self betrayal
of the poet.
radio silence,
the artist
gone quiet.
shut your mouth,
keep the food out,
but your words
in.
how quickly
did I jump ship—
haven’t written
a poem
in months.
did i dry the well?
it’s not hard
to tell:
gaunt eyes,
hollow shell.
I stopped looking
to the future.
instead of planning
my career,
fawning
over that
bright star,
I thought more
of how to fit
400 calories
into a single dinner.
a blessing
to choose
to eat less.
a blessing
to fret
over weighing more.
a blessing
to know this folly.
i will fall
into this trap again:
still,
i consider myself blessed.
I’m not a fraud.
I never lied once—
I fell, & fell hard,
but never hid the blood.
I saw the sickness
spreading through my marrow–
the blackest ink
in the most pristine waters—
I worked so hard,
& guarded this meadow
of my own making—
I tended to the Earth
& nursed her back to health,
so tell me: for bringing ruin
to my Eden,
how can I ever
forgive myself?
tonight,
i say enough.
binge, restrict:
the coin of self-loathing.
but my life is bigger
than being bigger.
isn’t that self love?
yea—
tonight, i say enough.
i
am enough.
-
and when you hold my hand,
my heart speeds up,
but time slows down.
your head tilts, laid on my chest,
& the turning of the earth: it hiccups,
if only for a moment.
and your laugh—
oh, your laugh,
I can only die happy
if that sound
were my last.
this love: it is not quiet.
it burns in my gut,
it needs to be sung—
to shout, to scream, to holler,
“Look, world— it is her. She
is the one—
the one
who is a full Moon
on the darkest night—
or, no— she is the Sun,
and I the pallid Moon,
and if I shine,
it is but her
borrowed light.”
-
Break your life into verse.
To run on this path,
or to stop; savor,
inhale—
step,
stop—
gravel crunch, silence,
eyes closed, heart open,
holding the Sun’s hands.
step again, stop.
there is a hidden movement.
a leap in every pause.
such speed in stillness.
such stagnancy in those who cannot stop moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving—
lips move,
but frozen on the same word.
find the symphony.
make a hymn of the cacophony.
rescue each layer from its doom:
to be swallowed by the whole.
do not let life be noise:
let it be music,
and please:
stop, and listen.
-
can you feel the flame dying?
the celestial hearth we orbit dims.
premonitions of heat death:
you inch farther
and farther
away.
our gravity: not enough.
this dance, it comes to an end—
you are drawn in by another,
by a pull
far greater.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star
is warm enough for me alone—
but my oceans
already turn to ice.
my glacial heart
slows its beating.
heat death, heat death, heat death:
again, the premonition.
prescient vision:
it sees not the future, but the now
too clearly.
my love is its own cipher:
the very thing which bitters our parting,
makes shouts of whispers,
cymbals of subtlety.
and what is heartbreak but this:
for the heart
to still hold someone near
who is not near
to be held?
the heart understands not
the language of miles—
to it, you are still close.
it reaches out, sure of your embrace—
it recoils at the thin air.
my love:
where are you?
-
can you feel the flame dying? this star of ours, the celestial hearth we orbit, she dims.
premonitions of heat death — you inch farther and farther away. our gravity is not enough. this dance comes to an end— you are drawn in by another, a gravity far greater than mine.
goodbye old friend, goodbye.
i pray this star is warm enough for me alone, but my oceans already turn to ice. my glacial heart slows its beating— heat death, heat death, heat death— again, the premonition.
prescient vision, it sees not the future, but the now too clearly. my love is its own cipher: the very thing which bitters our parting makes shouts of whispers, cymbals of subtlety. they broke my heart long before you spoke the words.
and what is heartbreak but this: to hold someone near to your heart still who has long departed? the heart speaks not in terms of physical distance— to it, you are still close. it reaches out, expecting your embrace— it recoils at the thin air. it reaches again, cannot fathom your absence.
where are you, my love?
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 