Then,

When she is on the precipice

of gray, softening into

neutrals, not the vivacious

morning star but a mellow

muted glow.

When she is residue, when she is

the extracted essence of

breaths woven through

time; memories’ mist.

Then,

you will love her not

For the turn of her mouth or

the luxurious hair

You will love her not for the

bend at her waist,

Intoxicating softness,

Satin lips.

When the delicate gold of

her youth is speckles of dust

in the wind.

Then,

I know she is loved for

Her deepest light,

her darkest, richest

Most unattainable,

chipped brittle ends.

Then,

Melting, your eyes will rest

upon her bare soul and two will

Behold the unknowable;

Crystalline, effervescent

Omnipresence of love.

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It’s just-

It's not nothing it's just--

The glow of a gaze,

A winter sun, August moon,

Moonbugs and thunderlight,

A storm and a sun shower.

The geometry of held hands,

An almost smile.

Quiet, unsaid,

Here not here.

The faint scarlet shadow,

upon the heart,

Of an unseen dream.

It's not nothing,

It's not.

It's just--

And now for the dessert.

Loss will beat you to a pulp with a crusty shell of burnt desires. Voila! you’re creme brulee. Sounds poetic but hurts a whole hell lot.

…..

I want, I want, I want. I only want.

I only want what is irrevocably mine.

Mind those empty hands, please.

…..

You are a thousand butterfly wings flapping to rustling leaves.

You feel like dew drops to flowers.

You are the merry tinkling of faraway bells in some softer place.

You are a crystal lake of liquid metal.

.

But irrevocably, irrefutably, do you belong besides me. In some strange way, are we undeniably linked.

.

For all the glorious wonder you arouse in me, are you just a sight to behold?

Or the fireflies in my eyes.

 

 

 

 

Melting into mattresses

I would like to melt into the mattress.

But people do not just melt into mattresses.

How many people have you known,

who are nothing but a water stain on a mattress.

None.

The kind of people suitable for dissapearing into mattresses are the people you do not remember, can’t. Never knew, won’t. Even their family doesn’t remember if anything is different, other than an upsetting stain on an otherwise perfectly useful bed.

oh, well.

People have been absorbed by mattresses. But it’s when you are less a person, more a shadow. It’s when everything that makes her is other people and they aren’t there anymore. And she exists in no one’s mind.

Hey, whatever happened to…..oh nevermind, I forgot who I was thinking of. Did I know someone who doesn’t exist anymore, except as a substance percolating through a mattress?

But people do not just melt into mattresses.

It’s not supposed to

I saw a woman floating on a cloud
She said life is a garden of blades of steel

And showed me her hands full of papercuts

‘I like to collect broken pieces’

Her eyes were shattered glass and shrapnel

‘I am the end of all things. I begin where everything ends’

The man inside a bubble

writes songs about the life he was passing by.

.

Eyeballs hang ripe on trees

Crushing under blind feet.

.

 

 

Real

Poems are little indulgences. Shameful little ways to vent whiny demons. Secret whispers to all the shit you want to shout out. Because it’s all in the head. The chemicals are making you happy, the chemicals are making you want to die.

What is real

is beyond.