After math 

You ask me how are you? 
I want to answer I am the  after math of you talking about loving me with a mouthful of leaving. But all I reply is a thousand little things which don’t catch your attention.

I say I want to hug you. 
But the truth is it’s just arms locked in losing and permanent smiles that don’t fade easily.  

I say I’m used to the cold, and these odd digits make me feel hot in spring. But I’m just cold from Frozen nothing’s of your silence. 

What a beautiful house you make out of longing. But darling it’s just windowless rooms of pain. 

I say I am numb. But it’s a burden to feel the razor sharp cuts of all these fragments of our present. 

Lights out 

“I think I’ve been way too hard on myself. I was trying to find a float, and reminiscing making life rafts with you that It slipped my mind that I’ve known how to swim since I was 3 years old.  I was looking for conversations, that I forgot to initiate some. I was looking for a room filled with  lights that I forgot to turn the lights on in my own room. Got to just jump into that lake and turn those lights on. ” 
Breakcage


Picture art by Jason Scottish

Excerpt from a sent mail. 

“Between tangled timezones and endless space, stay trapped, a dozen conversations in front of that mirror.  That shade of lipstick, those earrings or the taste of that lotion. Which one did you hate the most? Y’all  created a dozen replications  of the same sequence. How did y’all end up loving that reflection, when all y’all spoke about were the little things you hate? What happens to all that truth your hands spoke to her waist ” -Excerpt from a sent mail 

Old park

“Soon we won’t need any of this. There won’t be a need for you to disperse into thin air. Everything will stop. You heart won’t be  dodging feelings that my words bring to your head. You wouldn’t find me swinging in the old park of rejection. Love, I will be suffocated from your absence that had already started to consume me”

Fold and Tuck

“I am molded by your will, when I fold and tuck good memories, they just become squared versions of your face. When I write poetry, the broken metaphors spell your name.
You think I’m holding on, but you’re so numb, that you don’t feel the grip of my words. Love, I’m searing into your psyche. But look how you think it’s you. How many more times are you going to leave, before this absence starts to weigh on my conscious. Your rhythm is as steady as  that of the waves. Oh, darling, how you tease the shore, before you leave”