December 2011
39 posts
3.03 am,
I lean into the silence,
it gives the world back.
counting the mountains,
stood between our happiness,
a hundred thousand.
the ink stained frayed hems,
of once white cotton shirt sleeves,
reveal her first love.
against the sunlight,
still a pinhole in her blouse,
but the flowers, gone.
a winter sunrise
from the 52nd floor,
new day, new city.
she’d only dive in
where the sea had gently warmed
the sea’s old grey face.
seventeen fence posts,
severing the evening sun,
we watched, we waited.
we sit here waiting,
three hundred and thirty three,
let new songs begin.
barely six years old,
when we dismantled the sun
into our pockets.
our fingers entwined,
all that survived our silent
continental drift.
she’d lain there for days,
heart crossed with broken branches,
ankles graced with leaves.
sticky clementines,
crushed against hot summer skin,
tracing every curve.
somehow she reached in,
beyond the din and the dust,
lips against my heart.
the descending veil,
gracing every leaf and blade
with glistening kisses.
I saw everything,
torn white dress, tired broken heels,
and fading lilies.
haunting silences,
the space between the words meant,
and the words spoken.
a hairline fracture,
on the lake’s winter mirror,
they barely noticed.
another trespass,
across the landscape of her
barren, hidden heart.
the willow branch dips,
in reverence more than fear,
the river rages.
she held a mountain
of directionless longing
in each tired hand.
she would make notebooks,
hand stitched from leather garments,
stolen from lovers.
our scars are stories,
a tactile braille epitaph left
by each adventure.
her red dress, tattered,
relinquishes its hot dye
into her young skin.
my heart suspended,
in her finely spun cobwebs,
each thread, a doorway.
a thousand trumpets
illuminate the silence,
when our fingers touch.
silver moon descends,
she draws me close and whispers,
never stop dancing.
the dry crack of bone,
cushioned by the soft blue drifts
of daily practice.
an avalanche heart,
tumbling down her mountainside,
searing through her snow.
theirs, a perfect love,
she died in new mexico,
years before his birth.
on the railway bridge,
we had never gone so far,
I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
fading, collapsing,
into a future designed
by distant strangers.
the collected rust
on his grandfather’s toolbox
told its own story.
she would photograph
the buildings of her childhood,
decaying, dying.
counting the moments,
ten thousand three hundred and
thirteen, all with you.
as she walked away,
he watched the wind caress her
tattered paper spine.
softly, she asked him,
if I told you everything,
would you still need me?
silver spectacles,
discarded by the white worn
porcelain basin.
static played backwards
to unravelling film reels,
their truths forgotten.
her fingers clutching
a photo in slow motion,
his final capture.
