I don’t recall the color of your smile,
the sound of waking up beside your breath,
through dreams you mumble, tripping all the while,
o’er words you say when sleep sequesters death.
Memories like San Francisco plaster,
dissolving through the dawn’s relentless mist;
rusted bridges seem to burn us faster,
lest we burn them first with clenching fists.
I lost the road we journeyed once to get here,
looked back to find my footsteps faded now,
retracing tracks with eyes untuned to darkness,
tripping into dreams where I have drowned.
I can know the clouds in cloudless skies.
I can love you without knowing why.
I leave the flat late and still
get to walk in the half light,
where moonmist glows
over grass, crickets whispering
the secrets of the weather
to one another.
The city is fantastically quiet,
a calm before winds full of
wanderers brought to the night,
dragged from buzzing kitchens
into pathway lamplights, moths
claiming their rightful suns
against a silent sky.
Soon the murmurs will be
a song humming in the wet
air, shying the crickets away
from their gossiping tongues.
Ours is the wind,
ours is the night –
ours is the half light.
The tired night could not sleep alone, without you
her thoughts of our darkness rest like weeds and rain
in a forest patch that did hide its secrets well.
You waited for the day to save her soul.
Alone our secrets hide in the darkness and weeds.
Tired without you, the forest waited not to sleep
well; her soul could patch its thoughts like rain.
You did save for her a night of rest that day.
Save our secrets of rain – patch the soul that weeds
darkness. A forest without night could not hide her,
waited alone for you and the tired day to rest in her
like its thoughts. Did you sleep well?
I wish I could imagine life without you,
that mornings spent alone were everyday,
that tables set for two were optimistic,
and pillow forts could keep the wolves away.
I wish your voice were more parts stress than calm,
or that its croon was less like lullabies,
but your sighs bring on their windless waves
a promise of your bittersweet goodbyes.
I wish that I could blame you for a sin,
or that you could commit a godly crime,
but He cannot absolve a shielded soul,
and you do not believe in the divine.
I know your coming like the rise of dawn,
the weight of footsteps on the hardwood floor,
how deep you breathe when peacefully asleep,
the weight of worlds you bear and always bore –
for we are cut from cloths a pond apart,
our slates, though blank, were not made to align,
but like a soggy puzzle piece, we change
to find our peace, imperfect and resigned.
Water did not bear my soul anew,
a renaissance was never destiny,
and while I wish the world would change its plans,
I somehow know that you are meant for me;
explain to me a life I lived without you,
and I will find a shore without a sea.
“I love you,” said pathetically sincere,
like drool that falls from numb and lonely lips
and stains a shirt, already dark with tears
and rain that marks the end of sinking ships:
confessions spake too late are never heard,
are never mulled by jury or by judge,
and while they may transgressions yet deter,
they claw the throat, and future loves begrudge;
our journey lasted longer than we know,
for particles entangled share a heart,
and while the universe forever grows,
each beat remembers start to end to start.
These ties that bind prescribe our epitaph –
alone we hope to find our other half.
In Greek mythology, Ganymede, a divine hero of Troy, was abducted by Zeus in the form of an eagle to be a cup-bearer for the gods, because he was so beautiful.
The tourists on the moon are loud of late –
they cry of prophecies among the stars,
of gravities with lift instead of weight,
of colonies that give rise just to pause;
they flash their cameras like solar flares,
to capture beauty like an eagle’s greed –
pure perfection only gods could bear,
they steal her like her brother Ganymede;
these foreigners, they conquer space to own,
like water in the lungs that muffles prayer:
diamond rain that burns as we bemoan
each wasted breath of stale recycled air.
Saying little, speaking far too loud.
I wonder if they think their gods are proud.