Too Too

i don’t miss your laughter anymore

turbine jets rumble coronaries

coroners removed these hands that were meant to hold your face

when you cry

i came back to life that night,

the night before i told you there was nothing left to say,

to leave,

that night you broke like a washing machine

all suds no dry seat in the house

i miss how rough your face felt when you went days without showering

cause it’s too cold in chicago

but that’s all

just feeling you was what it was meant for

your insides are too much too much for me

too little light

Advertisements

Adjunct

I am prime rib, diner patron,

dollar dime a dozen,

you meat ripping off my bone,

I haven’t cried in months but I feel like prey.

Dying for you to prove me wrong, I never been wrong once,

I need, wronged many,

you were a shooting star but I dunno if you saw yourself as more than flaming dust;

and it’s that hard line of forgive and forget

but I wanna let you know that if you are true I would give you anything you wanted, just to know

that the world was not as desperate for the mirror as we claimed to be, please

please let me have you this once. I am so set on a path of gone I wouldn’t even know

what you had left to give me,

I had inventory of the paper swans I folded for you every night.

You will only ever know my loss and it knocked me down, past medians all the nice girls clung to,

I clung to,

I clung to life so long it sucker punched me and that is less poetry than obituary. I died after you, and I will survive you somehow

and I will never be a man’s sunset

and this is less a sad song and more a tale for how I didn’t know how to end a fight.

You asked not to lose me and I gave you the map,

balled up to receipt-size;

did you count pennies for eye-weights

or just capitalist ventures? I am sick off sorrow.

Regardless you should know that I gave you

this glassjaw on a pyrex platter.

Permanent is just a marker

for those moments when we were too scared

to be anything but forever.

Days Off

Your lips lay like a flatline on those beginnings we had planned out, we had all them stories saved up in mason jars

like the time you lost your bike or when I went back into the sky and only you saw

me.

You used to use your lips as lighters, burn me back up again,

you said

we’re always okay

and that didn’t mean what I thought it did.

I bite my lips because I used to worry,

I don’t worry much anymore, I whispered to myself last night

ifeelifeelifeel

and this makes me more real

than church choir boys, sitting in a row, facing forward,

you never really got these poetry lines, did you? You will find this line antagonizing, won’t you? Paint a sad picture of my victimization and betrayal woes; I put you on a pedestal and I am fine.

You don’t stop loving someone. You let go of the rope but still feel it in your palms. It always feels like falling til I wake up on my mattress in the morning.

 

Breathing: meeting you to present day

I. Your love is a set of brass knuckles,

(I am winded by the force of your grin,)

and those tears are diamond encrusted, I will not trade you for all the

I-love-yous you never gave me,

thinking me childish and a poor judge of character.

We both see potential energy in our eyes

so I don’t tell you I flunked out of

physics, chemistry, biology,

(and A.P. Calc)

because I’m bad at memorization but always recover

(except in Calc).

I will never recover from you, I fear, so I’ll stay here among the empty bottles.

 

II. Your love is a contract I signed, the smile

we wear so deeply set in

those facial lines telling tales of how our lips romanticize the story of

a demolition derby versus the Great Wall, good intentions versus vanity, Slammin’ Sammy and Big Red 1998.

I weigh my pocket change and pace my steps

and there is always a cost I am willing to pay, banking on investment opportunities,

you are not a banker,

I am interest.

 

III. My love is that tree in the woods we always say we heard

but you got here too late so it was silent on the ground,

my leg caught beneath it.

 

IV. My love is a photo album on the top shelf.

Your love is a lie you told in a game of telephone back in 2002.

My love is your favorite band hoodie from seventh grade.

Your love is a torn map in a GPS era.

My love is a mother’s tired sigh from pre-k to college.

Your love is a chocolate bar in my back left pocket at the end of the day.

My love is Christmas with the in-laws.

Your love is always skipping those scenes where the hero dies in the end because you know I hate them.

My love is the fight over the last french fry.

Your love is an apology.

My love is sorry you’re sorry.

 

V. Silence:

(I know you’re not sorry.)

 

VI. You never slept in my bed

and I knew the springs in yours like palmistry.

I moved like a marauder, 7.7 miles from my past,

and you never asked but you knew my eager eyes;

now I’ll have a kitchen you’ll never see.

 

VII. Your name is already off my mouth;

you will not be the last breath in my lungs

so we both continue to breathe.