If you don’t want to be with me
just say so

And I’ll go 

It takes more than fucking somewhere to keep yourself warm.

A man carrying a sack

of heavy hearts.

A woman carrying her child.

Perhaps, the same.

The burden of love and 

sadness. 

We have it all.

But we choose to notice only parts.

The rest, written in clear ink,

placed in the cellar of our mind.

Our minds, plagued by despair.

And the rest of us infected by cavities

hidden in our vessels.

We spill our drinks on the

calf of another

to find love in an

empty hole.

We spit our saliva on things

with no appeal.

We get out of bed in the morning

to confront our hate and put up with

our misery. We listen to the same

sad song to position us in

the hands of lost embrace.

The fan blows my hair

and I think of summertime lately.

And when I go to sleep

I think of the bare skin

for centuries, put to forbidden use.

And all our fallacies for why

we have broken hearts.

I asked a man today what he wanted out of life:

he told me pleasure.

I told him love.

There is a valid reason

why the milk curdels

on the hottest days

of June, right

before you smile

— the frames of

ourselves

become distorted

by the air

and we blame it on

the temperature.

And there is discretion behind

daydreaming in circles

I have lingered

in the coat closet

for enough time to

know that 

you cannot love when

you’ve no room to move

— 

If I sit here for seven minutes

to play lullaby on quartet 

will you tell me how

you glow like the

moon?

Four-hundred seventy kilometres

until I am back to tomorrow.

Riding foreign soil, coming to land

that grew us until we became full bloom.

Hours, I peer at trees lined against fallow sky

and I look at the chests of

excited hearts, beating frantically —

thoughts of familiar faces, sentimental places. 

I’ve forgotten the ways I’ve felt here,

replaced by mindful creations

to keep me content.

In the light of day, I watch the passing-by.

It’s the time of year we begin to unwind,

crack and stagger.

And in the dark, the everyday stands still.

I was the alibi to quiet minds, here.

I was the etched doorframe and the 

candlewick at it’s last light.

I can still feel the equinox on my fingertips.

But I don’t know these bones anymore.