kitchen chair still
holds your
shape,
though you’ve gone
missing for
all days..
turn grey now
sun won’t
reach
you
as much as i’d
love to.
creativity
stale paint
cracks in sunlight,
settling into
today
in a way that negates
time
reminding me that
i’m not
here
and you’re not real
though you
appear.
a pumpkin
smile,
gent tilts his
head,
as if his turn
in game,
on chipped tooth bench,
lunch clasped
in palm,
cloaked in
trees,
shaded by
leaves,
knows not where
he’s from
or how he’s come
to be..
so infant-eyed
and free.
madness gnawing at
the feet
of under city
baring
teeth,
sunk eyed nursemaids
wiping drool,
coma pools
in split wide streets,
polluted by stale breath
beliefs,
uncover mirror,
face new
dawn,
unclasp chain of
nights gone
wrong.
my face like a
freezer,
stuffed with tv
dinners,
cooking like a teenager
binging on
tiktok,
this room could use
a dimmer,
this late into the
evening,
i don’t feel like
eating..
so i chew on
rocks.
juice drips from
a bite mark
just as healing
begins,
blue bruise beneath
the words
i lose..
wiping wetness
from my
chin.
i’m not the songbird
you reach
out to
on mornings void
of sound,
to lift you from
same worry
that frames your
wistful frown,
though i may lend the warmth
you yearn for,
when you think to
turn around.
between two
clouds
mother moon births
light
like it doesn’t
pain
to feel change grow
within,
or to go forth not
knowing
where the end will
find us,
laughing, shaking,
ruminating..
or
at peace.
you’re perfume
in a sealed
room,
intoxicating but
too much,
for these overburdened
senses
long grown raw to
phantom
touch.
you’re the prayer
that haunts,
dead to years i’ve run from
in my head,
to reinvest, to reinvent,
to crawl back
under bed.
hands in the garden 
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