I longed to be drawn in your spotted countenance,
With frustrated grace,
For only volatile lines provide shelter for muddled worth,
But you had come to me along an edge,
From which I was already clamoring beneath,
Half cleansed by its virile waters,
But ensnared by projection,
That I laid at your feet in staunch ornament,
Seeing them as bemoaning to mine,
And began again along that same periphery,
Assured of circumvention,
But the patterns that engendered me to you became blurred,
And split with chaotic dexterity,
For even the most lateral of progressions share no common end,
And as travelers your path could not be mine,
Nor could we exist in coupled stagnation,
And in this I fled from your face,
And took to your hands,
Where I feigned solace in their extension from you
And in their primary assertions,
As I had in the breath that brought my name from your lips,
And drew me from my own.
And within this dejection
I’ll ever be loved by lesser men,
For in their construction of me I’ll linger,
And delineate only mired connection.
An arcane endearment of flesh and beguiled understanding,
That in you became heavy with circumstance,
And fell from your eyes,
But I had returned to that which we had shared,
And took up my passage once again,
And claimed as my own the want of clarity,
Knowing now that I need only be drawn in earth and moon and bone,
An assemblage of matter imbued with intrinsic beauty.
Youthful Winter fell,
Stirring in its most tender days,
And covered me with the fertile soils of my Spring,
But I hid from its roots within the towering walls of shale,
In fissures sunk with mossy sentiment,
And I put my faith into the bones that showed through my skin,
For surely they were the ones to feel love,
And I grew resentful of the flesh that covered their protrusions,
Its mammalian grace I sought to sharpen and punish,
As it kept me from you,
and from that which the dawning bloom did provide.
To the most worthy of seeds,
and to the most worthy of bones.
And in that I did falter,
For cracked river beds can birth no fruit,
And while I laid waste to the waters of my constitution,
In favor of porous mineral salts and painted utility,
I stagnated into a moonless season,
Where my mind wept, thick and adipose along the sutures of my days,
Choking the impending Summer,
And enveloping the matrix of frost that had been thrust through my spine,
With wicked haste, calcifying and familial.
And in this growing deterioration I bent over inverted earth,
And scraped at the beds of my fingernails,
Drawing blood and loosening brick,
Until even the smallest of vessels became exposed,
And I could turn to the sky in both longing and proclamation,
And beg for light’s shaking return.
Won’t you sleep with me every night for a week
Won’t you just let me pretend this is the love I need
And I will grow out of all the empty words I often speak
and you will be depleted, but much better off without me
"Someone will hurt me so bad one day
And you’ll resonate or I’ll apologize
Or maybe I’ll make the same mistake twice”
It only made sense
That we lost you
In the fertile early morning
Over saccharin stained milk.
In the days that I dreamt of the nothing but the river,
When I would forge the space between the railings of your day-bed,
Pressing crumbs into my skin and tea into my tongue,
I became imbued.
With the patterns of breath, and wheat, and stale skin,
Yellowed by tumult.
Clamoring and stagnant.
And in those weeks in July with my feet resting on the river’s spine,
I bent towards the gods,
Cursing with every loosened piece of earth.
In the way of saplings and dirt muddied by the first rains of Spring.
And on the day that you died the rocks broke through my soles,
And the crumbs pierced my skin,
Germinating an embroidered dejection-
And then the winters would pass,
Arid winds tracing lines in the hands we shared,
Drawing roots and blood.
Entanglements of fissures.
And I would see you in them,
And still in the river-
Now choked by frost,
In the tender hands of July,
Sentient in the pores of Summer,
But now a mere wraith to my reverie.