“do you ever think of strangling me while i am asleep?”
but sometimes he watches my consciousness impersonate the softness of a preserved corpse and remembers the november sunset crowning : stillborn. i am the umbilical yarn winded around the last beautiful face he ever knew, the first gemini twin to dislodge itself from his corner of the constellations.
even our bodies wanted to write words and seem chronological but the only timeline we could build was eight p.m. kisses in a public bathroom and thirteen minutes of excruciating pain two years later in some small town in the south. he yawns and i smile because he is satisfied in being perfectly, horribly unsatisfied. he probably loves me.
yes, he does.
addressed to: ‘dearest’
you were a child’s forehead scar
and I was only ever a bad motel room habit
white like porcelain china plates.
we are still just an eventual existence -
shifting in and out of the same consciousness,
(but I cannot forget the curse of your sleeping face.)
you are not the moon still in her infancy, stagnant and curled like a fetus. but you are the darkness she inherited, the definitions her blood will carry vein to vein, artery to bone, universe to useless. i often try to remind myself that last year it was summer. it was summer and the arches of your stature were not distorted like skyscrapers standing in a rainstorm. i remember the height of your temperature when my body was your fever. lover, lover, lover - but you are not my lover. not anymore.
The gruesome softness in your voice, I can hear it again. I still see the vacancy between your words written on lined paper, stamped, received two weeks late. There is a sea, there is snow, there is soil, there is someone eight hundred miles away who said, “I am in love with you”, and sometimes I wonder if he meant it.
B - the love of my life.
J - the other love of my life.
you’re barely stirring awake and i am biting my lip again. how do we stop ourselves from meeting each other in this purgatory?
there’s no place like home, dorothy
It was cold. It was cold and the sea was pitch black, blacker than the unconscious breath an existence takes under damp eyelids, curled palms, white memory, blush red hips unexposed by soft blankets. My fingers tried to be persuasive but you are not a noose, you are not the floor beneath my cracked ribs, you are not a color. You were always a postage stamp, checkered timeline, washed voice, summer freshness, blank stare, nothing, no one, smoke. I wanted to lose you to a girl’s bad dream in Kansas. I never wanted to lose you at all. I wanted to unbind you out of novels and snowy shoulders. Neither of us would remember, neither of us would remember what it felt like to feel each other’s unused space, in the bedroom, in the head. You forgot and so did I.
I think, I wish.
it was there again. the snow. underneath the heights of our veins and the stall in each breath you take when morning passes farther away from that bliss no one ever leaves bed with. in the color of your hands, in the lack of color of your hands, i remember how drunk you were one night, one year ago. i remember the sloppiness of the stars, the hours that disappeared into unconscious states. i could almost call it existence because there is nothing else that matches the word. nothing.