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.
It seems only boys strip their undergarments for me.
And it seems I only do the same.
A man carrying a sack
of heavy hearts.
A woman carrying her child.
Perhaps, the same.
The burden of love and
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
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.
Don’t be afraid.
I want to know your mind, too.
There is a valid reason
why the milk curdels
on the hottest days
of June, right
before you smile
— the frames of
by the air
and we blame it on
And there is discretion behind
daydreaming in circles
I have lingered
in the coat closet
for enough time to
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
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.
Thank you, stranger. Perhaps you don’t have to be so strange, though. I would love to reminisce.