clairsentience

It hits me
as I pin the appointment card
for his bloodwork to the fridge:
this is what we waited for.

This is where our adolescent architecture drew us;
where our practiced bedroom eyes germinated
and gossiped “when I grow up” culminated:

in drinking and laughing
at old movies and good jokes;
in peaceful bubble baths
before bed, book in hand–
almost boring–
much as we foretold.

also here: in that card pinned to the fridge
stark like an execution date.
in fear that grips our plans
by the shoulders and mutters madly:
time– there is never enough–
in limps and bruises
and uneasy complaints
(we never knew
that growing old
started when we were young).

What we saw as the future
we see now as our then-dreaming selves:
kinetic, hopeful,
unbound.

Advertisements

physics (April 3)

between what makes you, you
and what makes me, me
is the space that makes us, us.

science says we can never touch.
atoms and molecules
cultivate narrow alleys,
breaths between each other,
air to fill their lungs
lest they smother
and collapse
in a gravelly pile of gravity.

the ravines of void
hewn between you and me
seem not to protest at all
when your hand meets mine;
there is much more to touching
than the matter of mass
and its form.

Falling For

Here, the wind takes my voice,
opens my palms against its own hands
and unwinds my arms
so I stand,
quiet and not quite still,
always glancing down.

There are stars in the alley there,
lights and noises,
heat and glitter,
warmth and impossibility.
From a lightless night I gaze
into a fury, a passion,
a joyful shout
of life below.

I shuffle my feet
along my makeshift veranda
and my beloved emptiness
shifts and fills the space for me.

stay, stay, stay with me,
it breathes into my mouth.

It whips into my eyes and I shut them.
I could stay here.
I could precariously build a residence
on this tired precipice,
my toes digging into the abstract overhang
like I’m peering down a concrete ledge.

or,
like leaves,
like words
too quick to be recalled,
I could trip down
and
fall.

I Steal My Lover’s Words

When we are alone
I steal my lover’s words.

In his silence,
I pick out syllables,
punctuation,
the delicate pauses
lending weight to each thought – –

I am sneaking pieces of him home
in my pockets,
carefully collecting those fragile consonants,
wrapped in napkins and tucked in my wallet,
filed delicately under my pillow
when I lay down to sleep.

At night,
when the fear creeps in
and my hands wring themselves
and my own tongue curls
into venom and sting

I pull them out,
a faint echo
saying only,
“You are brilliant,
you are beautiful,
you are enough.”

hang(l)over

I have drunk too much
of your wine, my love.
My glass tips, teeters,
tumbles to the floor.

How can I sate myself now,
with the last of you soaking the floor?
How can I soothe my spinning head
without a drop of you
in my morning tea?

I find myself clutching shards of a broken cup,
thirsty and unsteady for want
of another taste of your vintage,
and all the grapes are sour.