Pass a thought my way if any a thought you have.
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I get so lonely so easily. I feel ghosts where no ghosts reside. Whispers of an empty room kiss my naked skin where I wish your lips would rest, so warm, so honest. But where a kiss is pure and sweet, as a child imagining dreams, your words hold secrets I cannot describe, I cannot accept. Your syllables are separate and dissemble the connection I was so hoping for. The pressure where it was placed. The tingle in my spine. Now again I will tell the truth at last. I become so lonely so fast. I look for things to fill the void, but here in my sheets lies the dust of retreat, the paragraphs that refuse to form. I shouldn’t be left to my own devices, but you haven’t figured it out.
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Each swift and undulating movement makes you dizzy with this sort of pleasing sickness that you’d rather not shake.
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It’s the certainty in unhappiness that keeps me coming back.
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I don’t think you know the way I search through your life, reading into letters even if they’re blank. Scanning every page to see if you’re a liar. Hoping with all I have that you’re a fucking saint. My stomach has jumped so far in my throat, I’m just chewing on the bile. Look what I have become each day and every night.
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Life is bright for the living; death is bright for the dead.
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You didn’t want me to leave. You were begging me with your eyes and language. A language I hadn’t heard before. It felt like betrayal, but it was comfort like fire. Cool fire that warms your feet when your toes freeze all up. You kept my feet warm in two ways, but I couldn’t help yearning for the missing piece. I feel empty and no language or heat from your frame will fill the void cutting deep into my insides. Thank you anyway, dear.
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I’m between houses, between feelings, between lies.
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The last thing I remember from last night is saying something I cannot remember. I wanted to hear your voice soften and decay. To hear your tongue move and push the words out from your lips. I don’t know if you actually said anything at all. I don’t remember if it was just a dream, but I do recall one small detail. One anecdote that was as tangible as anything. I slid my hand under your fuzzy head and slipped my fingers behind your ear. In this little dip in your skull. It was so incredibly warm there, and my hands seemed to blur at the edges. My fingers detached from myself and I was part of you, warm and safe and alone. It went dark, it went silent, and you stayed beside me through the night.
2011
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If you don’t occupy my mind, it wanders straight into the ground. Even still, sometimes it happens anyway. I will sit alone here under sheets that do not breathe, searching for anything to mimic a presence or a voice. My insides sink as they bloat and swell, with pressure so nauseating, it makes lumps in my throat. Fingertips get colder and colder, as ice. No heat from stretched skin to melt the pitiful snow around my form. Heavier and heavier my eyelids become, with no awakening in a happier place. I’ll rise in anger, not disappointing the pattern, and peer into distorted glass. Beauty exists in everything, everything outside of this garden, roses growing from their scalps, but never from the skull reflected back. Only wishes that are fruitless and feet that stray the path are left to fester within this cavity. My teeth are rotted out and this is all there is. Mold and scraps of flesh that would burn so easily. Now, I’m getting bitter thinking of the past, and here I stay behind my hands without your sincerity to rock me to sleep.
