waterwaste

5.17.15

she holds me hostage in inquisition and discovery
only shares  ideals and monosyllabic
patterns in plural
mixes.
I float on the river of her body, ears an ache with the pressure of her words
idle
seeking tidlewaves, thunderstorms
I want hurricanes.
guess your never old enough to splash in a puddle

no, not for what we had
i cried for what we never experienced

the way the ocean numbs my toes
could never compare to the way the sun kisses my skin

i painted the ridges of  your body
made the limelight
into candlewood
held space for isolation
and found only limitation in the timber
of your mood
swings.

smells of firewood in the morning
of cigarettes
and washed hands mid day
scrolling through laziness and procrastination
only to go to sleep with beer and defeat

and you say i run
when it gets real
well, my fantasies have become reality
and that much may be true my love,
but unlike you
i’m running towards something
At least I’m not stagnant.

 

 

5.5.15

i want to touch the sleeve of her river
i want to un-damn my bloodstream

Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated,
but not as long as i can make stories out of my heart break, beauty out of my sorrow.
if people were rain – she was a drizzle and i a hurricane and i hold
my lungs in the palms of my nervous system because i’ve been stung by a bee twice in my life and i carry an epic-pen with me so i never forget where honey comes from, you will never have to lose yourself to win me over.
Her arms are no branches, her body no trunk,
her feet are not roots.
I’m not held steady nor in compassion. Instead her arms are streams to her river-body, her mind a Pierian spring and my body hers.
temporarily buoyant.
temporarily.

 

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