faded
this flower did not bloom for you that day,
this fragile poppy, crushed under your left shoulder as you
lay in the field with his arm around you.
you press it in paper and leave it in a book, the
lingering scent of that brief spring day, when the clouds
crossed the sky slowly, and he pushed you down in a kiss,
the flower pressed under you. you wonder if it could have kept
the passion of that faded moment in its fragile petals. and
between the pages of an old book, you hide it, as though to keep the kiss
locked away and safe for memory.
years, and it fades to brown, papery and stiff, musty.
it does not hold the moment of passion anymore, it’s defeated purpose
when it bloomed in mountain silence and then you took it away
as though it could hold a memory in the color of its petals.
slightly
this is not a question you should ask,
although you ask it without words, but simply
looking, questioning eyes.
our toes trace lazy circles in the sand, the sweat
clings to the back of my knee, and i raise
my hand to block out the bright of the sun, and breathe deep.
this is not an answer to be given, or to be spoken.
there will be a moment, late at night when i will answer,
when the cool night air rustles the blinds.
and wordless, in darkness, when you ask silently again,
i will trace those lazy circles on your skin and
not look away.
in the yukon
i would like to scream now,
to let my voice cross this vast wilderness
to reach the distant mountain before me,
to cross what my body cannot.
I want to scream across this distance
and hear my echo come back.
I want to make my voice larger than myself,
to overcome in seconds
the thing that cannot be overcome.
I want to scream across this divide,
and shatter the vast silence that pushes
down on me,
break through this wilderness
that threatens to make me insignificant.
Troy
my love is the ocean,
deep, dark, unbounded,
it is drowning,
it is a rage in a storm
and a cool balm on a summer day.
my love brings down empires
unfaithful but binding
it knows death and birth and blood and tears
and the pull of the moon
and the burning of the sun.
but my love is not constant, nor unchanging,
it is passionate and cool,
it will burn bright and engulf you in flames,
it will cool you by starlight as a fading ember.
and in the moment of silence before it shatters,
before the walls crumble,
it is a deep breath, a soft kiss,
it is our fingers intertwined,
this love is eternal, this cycle,
this rebirth of love and hate and passion.
widow
the ring became a closed circle between us,
a slender silver weight on my finger, a heaviness,
a reminder of you, of your hands entwined with mine.
I let myself feel the weight of it when he talks to me,
twirl it around on my skin and let it stick. I look away.
he does not come back and I go home, alone,
dragging this hand that reminds me that I am supposed to love you.
and then I ache, for lightness, for bare skin,
I ache for your fingers entwined in my fingers,
the touch of your palm on mine, and this stupid silver ring
that touches some mystical connection to my heart,
this silver ring that I don’t know yet how to take off, even when you are gone.
our circle closed, my heart given though silence comes back in return.
almost
this skin that is pale and slightly puffy,
sometimes cold to the touch
it could remind you of a rose about to bloom
if you imagined hard enough. if you
closed your eyes and saw through that.
i could be standing in your doorway
with a long skirt and high heels and snow would
be falling around me and my lips
would be like a lake you wanted to dive into when you were young,
but were told to stay away. i could be forbidden.
or sweet. or sweetly forbidden.
this skin on my shoulder could be soft,
and you would think of silk as you touched it,
crying and wanting and needing
i could be a dangerous obsession.
oh, but here and now,
with my white lips,
pale unpolished fingernails,
tangled hair,
her i am imperfect, slighted.
sometimes pimpled. awkward.
but i could whisper those words, i could wear that dress.
i could pretend.
for just a moment, i could be the wind catching in the trees,
i could stand among the stars,
i could be the fantasy you dreamt of, once, long ago,
i could breathe in the sweetness of your breath,
and reflected in your eys
i could see myself and there would be beauty
and patience and perfection.
but i would give those stars up, just to have you see me,
like this, now, this moment, this pale beauty
diving into that lake but only briefly skimming.
between seconds.
between us.
perfection
perfection is a shallow myth,
built on a base of ice and stone, she stands cold but unshivering.
undefined by pain or loss,
perfection has not the tears to cry.
she is a flawed, lonely desire.
a spirit so self-absorbed, she would not even know
her own lack of fault.
alone,
she is an uncracked, unweathered statue,
smooth,
cold to the touch.
looking into a mirror that does not see her own reflection,
looking to a horizon that is unmapped,
her own, uncharted lack of desire.
she never reaches out,
complete in her own being.
there is no need to be filled, or to fill.
it does not ache at night,
there are no voices calling out, beckoning,
no implication of lacking.
there is no expression.
no waiting, no wondering, no longing.
morning after
i am the lie you tell yourself when you look in the mirror. i am the hollow feeling at the base of your throat when you swallow. i am the dirty dishes and the unmade bed you left behind. i am the scent you are scared clings to the sheets. i am the dream that you can’t remember when you wake up but lingers in your mind all throughout the day. i am your unanswered phone, the ignored blinking message light in the dark room. i am the sentence that was erased and rewritten with another name. i am the lingering sadness that has no explanation, the staring out into a gray morning sky with an unnamed longing. i am the lips you imagine on yours. i am the guilt that eats away at you. i am the thing that will fade over time, but always leave a small scar on the back of your knee. i am your regret and your heartbreak and your moment of inhibition. i am all the things you cannot say or put into words. i am your lie, only yours, and nobody elses.
the unknowns of topography
the silence somehow makes
these moments seem heavier,
like time dragging its weight, pushing
a divide, wider, distance.
this geography that separates.
there is the landscape of the roads
i’d drive, the mountains between us,
the shape of the hand that caresses
you in your dreams.
this silent depth in your eyes,
meeting mine across a room,
the reaching halfway and then looking away.
there is the fear of crossing
this canyon.
but, in a breath, in a heartbeat,
there will come a moment,
an event, a horizon, and we’ll cross it,
when it’s lighter, louder, less
self conscious, and we’ll know that
it won’t be undone.
we shouldn’t be meeting like this anymore
here, now, in this breath,
this heartbeat, this unbearable silence,
moments between words left unspoken.
it hangs between us, the hours, the minutes,
the waiting, the longing.
only here, you are tangible and real and human.
here you tremble. your heart
beats in your ears, you stumble over words,
each inappropriate and you fluster.
here, you mumble and long for those other moments,
of solitude and there, alone,
where it’s easier to breathe slowly and look up,
and imagine this all some other way.
