10.18.14

Nostalgic hands reach out

to touch this holy mantle,

brushing away dust and

memories best forgotten

I breathe deep and

listen for the

scent of you

to come visit me,

more real and present than

the space in each photo

where your face is

meant to be

but never does appear

Every nerve ending

connected to the

pounding in my chest

screams that you

should be in there,

not ghosted away to

a fortress of his will that

keeps you at arm’s distance

and me without a key

My mind hurls itself at

the locked steel bars,

a battering ram to

the door of all things unfair,

kicking and bashing

until the pain

from bloodied mental knuckles

gently lay me

to the cool uncaring floor

where I weep a river that

floods the moat

Because you wanted to be there too.

Scrapbook #9

You and I haven’t spoken out loud in a while

We haven’t touched

Haven’t danced

Or mused

 

So when I enter the room

Glance your way

Come closer

Reach…

 

The pleasure nearly sends me crumbling to the floor

 

Distance

You’ve always been so good at following my lead,  leaving me alone when I pull away. 

But sometimes I really wish you wouldn’t. 

Coming alight

I’m used to the dank dark corners in this old empty house of a soul, the dust gathered in places that used to be filled with life.  

But I’m not used to this tiny flickering flame of a candle I have only just found, deep within this closet of a heart. It’s not enough to light the next room over, though it’s just enough to spark.  

Process of Friendship

Two became four

And then more

Until me and you

Became a group of us

 

But life is better versed

In division than the other

Pushing us further

Till only you and I remain

Again

 

Two in the north

Two as far west as possible

Several still within state

But rarely accessible

 

Found one more devoted

But all the way in Scotland

Keeping us remote and forgotten

And ultimately

Alone

 

Shelved

I can stare down at this hand that once held yours and see flashes of all the stories we made to tell. But the thing about stories is they always have an ending and even though you are the verb to the noun that is me, I have to accept that our last page has already been read.

Oh fox…

My heart hurts

Knowing your smile is more of a frown

I don’t like one bit

Our timezones flipped upsidedown

A poem for me

Well, you’re quite good at gestures

By now we have a whole collection

Tokens of friendship treasures

You leave a note here

And I’ll leave a note there

Timing is always off

And never is it fair

But the affection is still great

Never shall is wane

No matter whatever else

We will always be the same.

Untitled

You’re the first thought upon my every mourning
Slam into conciousness without any warning
The reasons complex and constantly swarming
Conjested with need for proof not conforming
Looking for relief but find you ignoring
Crippling me with your lack of adoring

Your timing is poor, your uptake lacks reflex
I scramble to rebuild but the heart just deflects
Finding myself in your accumilation of rejects
Never have I been so proficient at trainswrecks
Whatever we are is now memories and reflects
Shattered and done like unbreakable Pyrex