sweet smells of morning
rise, up the living room stairs.
among the pitter-patter of
brother’s socks; mother’s slippers.
i skim down stairs:
into the sun’s eyes.
the windowpane reflects.
the kitchen table:
stained with memory,
resting on the floors
that raised me.
across the room:
the same couch
that soaked amateur tears
and eased restless teenage minds.
behind bedroom doors:
my mother’s sewing machine,
that stitched my torn ideas of love
and made pillowcases of forgiveness;
my father’s wallet,
of memories, sunny days.
the hall closet:
containing dolls with knotted hair,
and building blocks
the size of my brother’s dreams.
this is what it feels like:
to be in love.
with a place.
Her palms drag through the cold,
two winters embed in smooth skin.
Oak. Umber. Sepia.
The day’s rain haunts fingertips.
Strands of roots replace the memory of
old, easy days; restore hollow impressions.
His charcoaled stones left behind,
found lodged in shoes, sinking between
cracks. The ripples of his footprints stain
mossy rugs and rickety floorboards:
smudging half-hearted attempts at
steadiness. Her hands, muddied by
yesterdays, ease towards
the bathroom sink: lavender soap.
Today I visited the city I aspire to be hip enough to fit in to. Hydroplaned 6 hours round trip and made a great day of writing, exploration, and coffee in a crazy little city.
veins of snow cover
the forgotten leaves;
pressed to the ground
by the weight of familiars.
tree trunks peel away
layers of autumn
revealing their winter coat.
roots dig into the hard ground
away from the air,
the crisp breeze,
rattling frosted branches.
sheets of ice settle in to the earths skin.
you’ll want to chop your hair off
when he leaves,
to give you a sense of loss,
separate from that of your soul;
for a day you’ll feel weightless;
in the coming weeks when your hair is gone
and so is he,
you’ll be grieving two losses,
him and you
i don’t think of him anymore.
i don’t think
of the way his jawline
sliced me like a knife when he left me,
his bare hands grappled at my heart
until i couldn’t feel myself anymore
he tore life out with words,
dug holes in my skin with his eyes.
i have regained my sanity.
my heart is still missing
his voice rings in my ears
like alarms of past flames:
burning my memories.
smoke pours from my ears
at the sound of the name;
i gather the photos of us
contained in a box
lying under my bed.
one by one i place them
in my living room fireplace.
here i exist, years later
sparks still igniting
the bottom of my heart,
no liquid can extinguish
from my bones.
i am a garden.
dandelions sprout from my bones
with every step,
trees grow in my lungs,
flourishing at every breath.
i am pruned.
are no longer to be planted
among my flowers.
Swimming, we haunted the lake at midnight,
beams transmitting – between us – the moonlight.
Take me to these nights of ignorance, sweet
fairies dancing in the tiniest creases
of two minds. Miles of daylight seemed to taint
paired perceptions as we lay in soft wait
for the envelopes of time that contained
our thoughts: faded, softened, discolored; waned
with the setting of the sun, rising in
the realities of our seamless skin.
I lay myself down in the icy snow,
my chilled body shutters under the weight.
Curves of color flash and sink and collide.
of skylines, haunting the distance with their
radically inseparable lines.
Beetles burrow into the ground below.
A warp of orange paints the way towards
silence. I rise above the sunken floor.