can’t carry you
with me,
and can’t help
but look
back
to see if you’re
wind
or strewn gravel on
train tracks.
burst pipe in the
basement
floods a living room
grown stagnant,
photos float apart
as if to
flee..
a cigar box gorged with
dust and tears
long buried
in me.
so, what makes
you cry..
when holding
nothing
back?
do you revive
what could have been?
or let the better
times rest..
trusting we
did our
best.
we spilled
about dead parents
till they joined the
conversation,
at a table varnished to
cast reflections..
appearing more like shadows
of photos
by time’s candle
dimming.
it’s no wonder
i avoid,
so consumed by
city noises,
the hollow crunch
of beer
cans,
dank streets lined
with heat
lamps
leaving me fake
tanned,
while what i seek’s
a whispered
breeze
to ferry me
to sleep.
haunted by
a habit,
in the middle of
a sentence
to describe the sound
of distress
in a voice that
tames the
tides.
rusted spoon upon
the counter,
mother moon,
don’t judge me now,
for the spoiled taste
in my mouth..
from caffeine in
sweetened
cream,
behind dissolving
smoke screen.
not quite a creature
in flight
but high enough, though
skin don’t
itch..
my work shirt’s
tight,
a spritz of deep sea
in these
veins
to dilute this
miscast
hate,
cloud dancer..
bring the
rain.
you ordered me to
suck it in
and tuck the rest
away,
asking me to hide
again,
as to not be in
the way,
but i’m less meek
than before,
i’ll just shut this door,
then jam the
lock..
and eat the
key,
i’m starved for
more,
and sick from
talk,
please leave
me be.
i shook the bar flies
from my hair,
and scorched
holes
through tales i hadn’t
shared
in swarm gone wild that
would not
dare
subdue their
buzz..
..because.
hands in the garden 
You must be logged in to post a comment.