You said we’d go
someday, or maybe it was
You said we’d go and,
“Oh how my surly eyes smiled the day we left,”
behind waves of silver splayed
hiding her face.
like symmetry burned
outside of it.
A perfect fit.
“That was us,”
Sometimes I think if I write about the most random of things
maybe about my boss who gave me yet another task
as if I’m some goddess, miracle worker super hero.
Like I’m able to do all, above, beyond and yander.
Maybe if I talk about the clouds and how they remind me of driving
all night to see him. And then maybe a little about how he became
everything and nothing. But then I’d trail off into
the how’s of him and why’s behind how he’s gone.
And the one I know, he’s watching me
type up words on this screen. Maybe he’s wandering what
I’m writing. Is it about him…or him?
He’ll never know just how much
I love him. And I think how trite
those words are
and I don’t care.
The harder I try
to make words so profound
I fail to write
Sometimes when I’m driving
I watch them all wandering
where they’re going. Who’d they wake up to.
Is the place they’re headed
where once their dreams lead.
Does life still speak to them.
Does this world still break them,
with its musky, perverted mayhem.
Does the sunset still awe them.
Do they still feel the difference.
Are they still the witness,
the only precipice
or have they drifted
I watched her die.
All the years living,
replaying the quitting.
All of the things she did
in the giving up.
Why didn’t she just
fight for me,
and for us?
Her eyes filled
with death pools and sadness.
I stood by crumbling
and pretending this was
but madness. No
she wasn’t fading
While I went on living
as if death wasn’t stealing
and she wasn’t going.
But she did.
Time hasn’t healed this.
Death offers no
Her absence simply grows
While I’m still here missing her.
Words They drive me, haunt me,
call to the hidden parts of me. They burn. They free.
They’re memory’s key A flame to the lost.
Emotion’s trigger. And I often wander Do those lines on the paper
tear and scream
at everything in them the way they do me?
When she drives wide open and free do the wind and sun speak to her
like they do me? Does she feel the bliss
of innocence just like me?
Does her heart skip a beat, are there tears on her cheeks like me? Are words the meat
of the air she breathes? Her everything, that one thing she needs
to keep on living? Is she like me? I wander.