These days
the insanity of it all
cradles me in its
scathing arms, and I
am writhing with the thoughts-

It isn't my aging future
or my tattered youth
that is imprisoning me.

It is you,
as it has always been.

When anyone else reads this,
the words will become jumbled;
meaning lost.
Just like us.

Even as I'm writing this,
the moon is surrounded by all its
blackness, trying desperately
to appear lonely, despite its
glow and starry surroundings,
and inside I am lone
wearing your raincoat.

In between the writing,
I do not neglect the
intricacy of the roses or the
dawn of the blooming skies
that we've drawn,
only the thorns and the
tasteless ashes that rest
on my tongue.

Love, love:
it's been so long since
I first abandoned,
plummeted from your
cave, your dark address,
where I scooped and
stabilized a small dose of
the integral daylight to
reflect our illustration,
but how quickly it has bled
and dripped on your floor.

And how strong everything seems again,
when my mind races itself
but never finishes its race,
and I busy myself watching the sun
positioning for another day.

On jittery nights like these
when I cannot sleep,
lying on an unknown planet,
I feel my body tingling
as if it can't go on
watching its scorched heart
subtly dragged back to Earth.



Days are filled with newspaper articles
that do not tell our story,
and I am detached,
modestly crammed in my cubicle,
scanning the wall
for some sort of sign that says
we're okay.

Music no longer reaches my ears;
the face of my nostalgia
holds no effective disguise
when I brush my teeth
or do the laundry:
it unzips and reveals itself
as quickly as my ears tune out
the solemn soundtrack of departure.

When I walk down the street
to fulfill my supposed responsibilities
how quick my smile is
to fall and melt on the asphalt.
Calamity piles on top of me
like dozens of angels
waiting to deliver peeling messages.

I speak out loud
as if you're still here
then suddenly my mind
clutches to reality as tight as it can,
and I find myself measuring
the distance we're apart,
counting the ways.

I cannot help but wait for a cue
sometimes on these nights when I can
feel the stars slipping from my grasp.
The question itself echoes softly,
perpetually in my head-
do you miss it?
My ragged shawl and
the scene that we drew?
You promised to iron out
the wrinkles
when I was shivering so'

But there are more important questions:
why did you say you would
wear a suit when I found you
in your pajamas and why
was our illustration
so very inferior
to a lock and key
and the creaking crevices
hidden in your cave?

Questions are unanswered
in the frayed frills of writing
like your stiff hands that shook:
Goodbye, goodbye.
I wish that I could
fit you in my suitcase.