shut door when done

remember when it was more than this.

remember the hiss of snow on the lake,
the feel of fire in its place.

remember the forgetting.

remember what truth was, its high-flung pain.

remember the next night.

remember the taste of never,
the perfection of a kiss in the sun.

remember the last time you felt safe.

remember that you are more than (t)his.

remember the dregs and the puddles.

remember these words: concave, blue, gravel, catatonic.

remember the walk barefoot, cobbled in rain.

remember the screams.

remember the hand that picked you back up.

remember why.

remember how it ended, and where it began.

remember that which it is needful to remember,
the song you never meant to hear.

remember that dreams, too, are sometimes prophetic.

déjà vu

sometimes i
ache
for the darkness,

turn my eyes
before the ocean of his
mouth

has d(r)ied
on my
lips,

remember
distinctly
the thick taste

of charcoal sucked
through the brown
slatted shades

that hid sunshine
from the secrets
inside.

there are scalpel-
scars still on
flushed flesh,

mirror-marks
of time that
doesn’t pass,

connective tissue
knotted into daisy-
chains of white tomorrows:

where waters whisper
of salt and rust,
there is yet

frost
to come.
i accustom

myself
to the sound
of endings, learn

to hold my hands
close(d). sleep
is the natural

consequence
of over-
dreaming,

an exhaustive
star-eyed
lumbering

collapse. sometimes
i think i
think too much.

ebb and flow


it was a
quiet torture.
sudden dyings
and small footsteps in
quick-drying sand;
soughing behind windows;
pestilential dreamings:
if one were to cry
out, none would
answer, but

if anyone should ask,
i left in search of a muse
to make even my despair
sing; i
don’t know when i’ll be
back.