The dust here is like the dust on the floor of an old chapel I once knew
I stopped saying prayers when I saw that god took off his ear
He wanted to become something like an artist
This is why I remember every breath you took in the snowy air
Cuz it’s a lot like the air around here like…when I drew your portrait on the tip of my converse
The sound of traffic outside here is a lot like the sound of the footprints we listened to quietly under the stairwells of a broken household
There are no footprints here.
The poetry I write now sounds like shotguns
Blasting messages that sound like love poems but really is just a public service announcement
Trying to tell you stop hitting your kids and stop polluting the skies
But I don’t really care,
Because the air here is hardly functional
Everything I write sounds suffocated and I think its because the dust here is like the dust on the floor of an old chapel
I keep murmuring the gospel hymns like
I don’t really forgive you for yelling at me
And this poem isn’t really about you its not really about anything Except
I really miss what “there” felt like on my naked toes
And I gotta tell you
They don’t quite make a Sunday dinner here like they did there
And now we’re not going anywhere till’ I figure out where I took a wrong turn and ended up in here
The sky here is like the soft sounds that gasp from the pages of a freshly opened library book
The sky here is not like the sky there
That’s why I remember every step you took watching your old crooked body move like a hammock swinging into the mountain air
I remember….that here is a lot like nothing I had there
Here has a lot less of you.