language: revisited

you’re spewing words
without meaning
filling silence
with syllables
making
empty excuses
that
          float
                     around
our feet
unable to rise
to the occasion
stiff like summer
stabbing like sorrow–
i ask you
to enjoy the
stillness
to hear
without listening
     mouths unmoving
anything said
won’t translate
                            vanishing
into a
      void
of arbitrary signs;
Saussure
would be
so silently
proud.

colors

She watches the floating colors from passing cars dance across his face as he sleeps. In the still darkness, she whispers words of love and hopes he hears them, a closeness forged in the unconscious.
    He had been awake for too many weeks straight, stressed self-awareness that made him uneasy in the knees, ill-minded from too many coherent thoughts.
    Now he just sleeps.
She stays awake to measure his breathing, taking note of his heart rate and watching the floating colors of passing cars dancing around his features. The blues crowd in the corners of his quiet mouth, the reds powder his flushed cheeks, the greens slide beneath his eyes, puddles of exhaustion; the yellows drift across his features as a whole, like the sun in a rush to rise.
    She drums her fingers against his chest to match the pattern of inhales, marking an invisible tally each time he smiles from far away.
    Despite sub-conscious separation, this is when she feels closest to him, when she has no knowing of his thoughts, able to create stories of what drifts through his tired mind. Stories in which things are easier and the colors dance across their face yellow, like the sun desperate to rise to bring them back together.

untitled memory

you visit me in sleep
hum you’re still here
and i trust you.

i talk to your memory in morning
watch the sunrise with you
from a distance–

do you watch it too
    replaying summer scenes?
do you still reach over
    to place a hand upon my own?

there are letters i’ll never send
words i can never say
all addressed to you
    to us
to the past present future
i always assumed you would be in.

i count cardinals
from winter windows
waiting for seasons to change–

warmer days await
in which distance
won’t feel seem
so daunting.

Skin

your skin dances
against my skin
and it feels like home
sends chills up my spine
hair rising as you slide your fingers
along the curvature
of my body
caressing my hips
against your own
with ease
so sweetly
your lips
drag about my neck
whispering in my ear
stories we have yet to tell
the future ahead of us
your hands exploring
my inner thighs
searching for a god
you didn’t know
you believed in
the arch in my back
building bridges
to bring you closer
to enlightenment
my nails down your back
pulling you in closer
to taste
what it means
to be happy
to be home
in my skin
in your skin
stories we have yet to tell
the future ahead of us
a god
we didn’t know we believed in
a heaven
we reach
together.

The sun hardly rises 
through your east facing windows,
the dark wash of hopelessness 
covering the pane thick as dust.

Your skin is stretched thin 
over weak bones,
a gossamer veil 
protecting you from yourself
in the most insufficient manner.

And I know that,
although you won’t whisper it
to even the moon,
you’ve still been trying to die,
staring up at mountains 
contemplating how the wind would feel 
as you flew down.

I can feel the pain
in your chest 
as you’re driving 
and can’t take your eyes
off the guardrail protecting
the plummeting ditches 
you imagine curling up to sleep in, 
wrapped in metal blankets.

In the back of your mind, 
there she is,
begging you to stay, 
her low voice curling through your mind 
with memories of her warm skin against yours, 
her smile waking you with a hope
you never had.

There she is, 
swimming through your tears, 
breast-stroking through waves of emotions, 
wide-eyed and fluid
as she forgives you from so far away,
her lips pursed and humming
a lullaby
of hope.

Hope you never had
until she appeared before you
like a well-timed vision, 
everything you needed 
contained within her tiny frame,
tucked underneath her ribs waiting
for you to unlock it.

You’ve been trying to die,
but I know that you know
you already have—
as you watched her turn to leave that last time, 
her smile sunken and eyes red,
as you told her there was nothing left for her there, 
that you didn’t want to try 
and that you never would—
as you told her she wasn’t the one,
as you lied and swallowed all thoughts of love,
as you broke her down
to elevate yourself—
but you’ve never felt
so low.

You’ve never felt
so alone.

Your lungs collapsed
as she sucked the air from the house
as the door shut behind her,
suffocating on the fumes from her car
as she pulled out of the driveway
and didn’t look back.