never is a promise

I haven't showered since you left..or washed dishes. or heard from you.
wrapped up in madness, now i am standing solid eroding slowly by this
rapid fluid of energy..living i believe it is called. clinging to you then suddenly
clinging to stars. I will probably never forgive you for who you are...or me, for loving you so much.

in this place, all we have are illusions. forgive me a second for trying to resuciate the Never-Will-Be
to paint the features of a face on Never Was.

army of lies like ants one after the other and i loved every sting and now i recover in a capsule of self and breathing and stale smoke and heat and shattered tower bits bc where i lose is where i breathe in nothing but total freedom and all the crushing pain breaking bursting lungs of alive

I wish i could find a blank cool silent room where i could be alone and rest for as long as it took to not feel this exhausted, this used up and this unforgiven

June 9

Starring scarring fading falling…rising….burned out and then blinked back to life in a waking dawn new light filters through the old panes and across ….ankles, cheekbones and the gentle curve of stomachs.

Days weeks months. I wanted one more day with you.  Cold wind and then rain crashing down like teacups. Chattering like porcelain teeth. A baby cries in a dream startled awake the mocking birds .

Gulls casting shadows across the rippled sand. A ruined castle and a brand new plan.  A life bursting forth from a shell, cracked across the sea floor twelve times and then washed away again.

The broken vase in the garden of dirt and this concrete prison cell sold over and over with real estate signs rotting down to the core of a trashy river.  A River Rising without permission and a million landlocked knock kneed jaw thrusting punching pushing….

Up river to the lake, all for a glimpse at the stars home is this nest, wisps of thread and sticks and scribbled words faded into looseleaf. Then your lead broke. And your heart broke. And a thousand clichés tumbled out like bouquets.

The admission of guilt, the freedom moves up stream to a place were deer sleep and reflections are never seen in dew drops on pear leaves opening for mist at morning and all across the sleepy soft ground the grass pushes up, reaches for everything