the small ways are best -
morning begun,
sun pouring in
words
sip of coffee
swirl of pencil on paper
rasp
erase
reform
later,
night holds sway
the clink of ice
in a glass that longs for whiskey
click of keys
as music swells
from deep within
where once love burbled up;
as i write,
my throat contains
an unswallowable lump
of heartwords
and tentative fingers crabwalking
across the carseat
blindly seeking connection
I’ve spent some time lost in the paths of words, of books once shared between mother and daughter, remembering the worlds she taught me to tread. I’ve welcomed their inhabitants as old friends, cupping their knowledge to my cheek as a buttercup butterwish casting its yellow glow upon my chin. I remember small, I remember safe, amongst the chaos and thunder that seemed everywhere then, and everywhere now. I remember soft voiced singing of songs that held all the magic of growing up within them, and always, always, I remember the scent of books.. Their secrets waiting just for me to unravel, choosing the books with no covers, much like choosing lovers based upon their hooded eyelid glances. I’ve sat inside the memories of what it was to be held as a bundle of potential and to be wondered over as my growing was watched by her ringed blue cats eye crystals. I can abandon those memories that sting, that chafe, because I have the ones she gave, of love without restriction and hope without conditions.
Some days the walls close in, eggshell glossed and thicker than my bones can break. Some days the sun dips and the magical gloaming time never comes, just the gloom descending. And I am lost inside the labyrinth, praying for an oubliette to open beneath my feet at the next turning. To forget. To forget the taste of air in lungs that ache with the holding of all the words I must never say, because the good ones never tell what lies behind their china doll eyes. The good ones cover their cracks with smooth clay and pretend all is well, or otherwise become undone, spent and unwanted, the piebald velveteen rabbit far past the shelf date everyone else knew she had but her.
s p r e a d o u t
in increments;
just enough
for sustenance
but never enough
to sate
words swirl
condemnation
castigation
shame
sharp vertigo head swirls
topple over my feelings
of potential
and i’m left to sit
in the blitzkrieg aftermath
of the words you lobbed
with your concentrated casualness
exactly when i expected them least
knowing my unknowing
would take the most casualties
cause the most skin tissue damage
and i can’t even look at you
and most especially not at myself
as i review
all the things that i have done
to deserve them
i don’t know what to write.. i don’t know why melancholy drapes itself upon my skin like laundry pulled from a broken dryer. its cold seeps into my bones and arrests my ability to hold onto anything as a belief.
i don’t know why i can’t just ask you when i need to be held.. and why i wait, so hopeful that you will notice the gaping void, and attempt to cross it. i remember being very small, waking from another bout of night terrors, and trying to scream, hearing my mother’s footsteps as she shuffled to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, yet it felt as if my vocal cords were cut. the more i tried, the less sound came out. why couldn’t i scream? why couldn’t i tell her i needed her?
this is much the same..i ache for the cup of your palm along the curve of my cheek. i ache to be able to ask you why my shelf life has seemed to run out.. but my vocal cords are cut.. and i cannot scream
do you remember
when we spoke the midnight words?
your voice coated my collarbones
with these syllables of your hidden self
tracing the blue faintness of veins
to the heart that waited, open and ready,
for you to choose the curtains
to clothe the windows framing a view
only we two could share..
morning hits
a splash of coffee
mouth grasping the lip
of the mug
as an eager lover
hands cradling ceramic curve
stir of spoon
clasp of fingers
soft, interior smile
at memories of
the now sleeping night’s dreams
where lovers danced
not unlike this
…and as you know, I sit in this world of maybes, of a kiss that still trembles in the cusp of not yet having been given, tapping fingertips against these lips that only hold silent ghosts of all the words I ever wanted to tell you, but dared speak only to the eggshell walls within me, due to the smugness of the small days, where the mountains seem to always win, and each soft pocket contains a secret darker than the last, and my fingers feel never emptier, never quieter, than in these times they’ve spent not wrapped around your flesh
your words
are the feathertickle inside my ribcage
drifting awake sleeping nerve endings
a name that holds a thousand unkempt kisses
and ungiven touches
of tangled fingers and drenched heartsounds
that echo and reverb
along this empty frame
of a girl
hiding in a woman’s garb
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