I hate seeing poetry in everything I touch. I hate that I can no longer love you without turning you into a metaphor - that it can never be simple as looking at you and saying yes, yes, yes.
Let’s begin here - at the skin. Pay attention to the story. A tale of lovers leaving port without words, with ships full of cargo, migrating from body to body, from flesh to flesh. This is a documentation of the human form: how we discover it, how we allow it to be discovered, how we love contours and knuckles and consume selfishly and sinfully - trying in vain to map out our primitive cartography without knowing what names to give the things that we love the most. This is how we discover language when we sail through it without a compass. Skin: two oceans colliding. My salt dunes. Your dimples like sand dollars. Our bodies tangled like seaweed. This is what you would find if you ran your hands over these bones in the dark and tried to turn me into braille. These are the distress signals that our bodies know before we do. Morse code. Heat rising. Our skin, flushed. This is driftwood, and this our drifting. These are my hands on your hands. These are my poems on your poems.
when I told you I loved you I meant it.
I almost miss the sound of your voice but know that the rain
outside my window will suffice for tonight.
I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months now
and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses
in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry
because, because —
you know exactly why.
And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand
how that would break my heart.
I’m running out of things to say. My gas is running on empty.
I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus
and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain
and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra.
I wanted to tell you that I’m not afraid of being moved anymore;
Not afraid of this heart packing up its things and flying transcontinental
with only a wool coat and a pocket with a folded-up address inside.
I’ve saved up enough money to disappear.
I know you never thought the day would come.
Do you remember when we said goodbye and promised that
it was only for then? It’s been years since I last saw you, years
since we last have spoken.
Sometimes, it gets quiet enough that I can hear the cicadas rubbing their thighs
against each other’s.
I’ve forgotten almost everything about you already, except that
your skin was soft, like the belly of a peach, and
how you would laugh,
making fun of me for the way I pronounced almonds
like I was falling in love
Your favorite book was Hunger Games while mine was Rapture: A Raucous Tour Of Cloning, Transhumanism, And The New Era Of Immortality.
We were two independent and completely different individuals that seemed to align for just a period of time. It was perfect, perplex and for some reason, I became wildly obsessed.
Probably the worst types of people are the ones that shut you down to make themselves look cooler than you, for example if you get excited and squeal and they’re like “woah what was that..” or if you talk loudly because you’re passionate about something and they say “relax dude wow” and then give a look… Like fuck off stop trying to act so cool and collected. You don’t seem more mature you just seem fucking boring and monotonously placid.