Sunflower Lungs

I’ve drilled a hole in the glass. Found my way along a stream to the heartless. The mountains are a riddle; the silent air filled with the commotion in my head. I like the cliffs better than the concrete and indifference.
Crickets whispering in my ear. I now know the consequences of my actions. Singing our names together; chanting the syllables against their legs. I tried speaking into the air, but my words were too soft for you to hear. It might be the wind working against me; or some god, or fate. Who knows. All that I know is that I left a lot unsaid that day.

I can’t speak with dirt in my mouth. My throat is bent. I’ve been scratching at it to get to the apple lodged within. Maybe if I tear through the muscle I will find a set of words.

If salt and cotton could only bring a smile. Give me a clean slate. Make us forget the stress of paper. Shades of green stained with red.

Blood clots on an oaken table. I don’t feel much life in the room. A fearful mother on the interstate. A week of standing on tired bones. Months of working on a worn down frame.

Its been a while since I’ve listened to the painted city. I haven’t played those songs in a while. Since my drives up the east coast. Dancing in your basement to songs of silence. Trying my hardest not to step on your toes.

Shaking knees in the cabin of my truck. Shouting over the engine to hold a conversation. My hand between your thighs. I don’t know; everything felt alright in my jalopy. What a twisted hunk of metal it was that brought me across the miles.

Everything felt okay. I was fine. I felt some normalcy in my life for the first time in three years. I was fine. Now I’m not so sure, but I’m getting there. I’m getting there.

11 May 2 Permalink

Chinese Takeout

Maybe it’s the whiskey that’s crept passed my lips to lay its head beneath the ivory. Or maybe it’s this five in the morning loneliness. I don’t know, I never know what’s eating at me. Tormenting my stomach; my throat is numb from the alcohol.

I feel like a black sheep, but there’s no flock pointing fingers. A house full of people that I made friends with earlier in the night. I said I’d quit smoking months ago. Sometimes it’s just comforting to be holding something. It doesn’t replace your hand. It could never replace it.

I don’t want to be here. I’d rather be in bed with you, laughing until the sun filters through the window. Ignoring sleep for caffeine. I’ve replaced one for another. Happiness for loneliness. It hurts me to know that I could’ve prevented this.

You hate me now, and that’s the hardest thing to cope with. No more conversations shared. No coffee dates to look forward to. I’m a mess. A complex of bruises and pain. I remember the winter. Out of the blue my life seemed to be alright. I remember the winter.

So as I sit here, people ask me why I feel this way, filled with cold air and cobwebs. You can be alone while in a house that’s filled to the brim. Drowning in water below the knees.

You wouldn’t believe the man I’ve become. Fragments if anything. My shadow nipping at my heart; splinters in my hand. A tree won’t sprout. And you’re not coming back when the snow falls. It’s all just wishful thinking. When the moon goes behind my back wishful thinking is all that I will have. It’s all that I will have.

2 May 3 Permalink

Petrichor

These days are turning to weeks, these weeks to months. How the winter has turned to roses; the frost to broken glass, melting into the pavement.

I dug my nails into my palm and felt the strain in my tendons. What a weight my heart is to carry. How have I not been brought to my knees?

I guess that I miss the old days. The winter before I graduated. I felt as if I had a new lease on life. How young and naive I was. I thought the world was in my hands, but it has been sitting on my shoulders all along.

I can feel my anxiety swimming along in the marrow of my bones. You won’t be here; you will never be here with me. I’ve torn at my scalp to get to these worms that are hiding in my brain. My love used to be such a tasteful thing, innocent and childish it seems now. Nothing more is left but a rotten core for the insects to pick at.

I crave for that simple thing I have long since locked away. My dreams are nightmares anymore. I know that that is all that they will be. I will never wake up next to you in our apartment. The bricks are crumbling and the paint has chipped away. We won’t share a smoke with our coffee looking out across the city. I wish to trace the stories untold in the veins of your hands. But it’s all for nothing now. I have nothing. I have nothing.

The sad thing is that I said I would always wait for you. I mean it. I fucking mean it. When the drugs ran rampant through my blood, your voice across the miles was all I needed. I was happier than I had been in all of these months.
Now I’m alone in our apartment, hoping for something to snap inside of me. My tangled wires being cut and reworked. I will always want you. I wish those drunken words would come to fruition.

I’m losing sleep at night. I’m frantic. Like the moment you said you wanted me again. I had no more cigarettes; no more poison to pour into my lungs.

Your fingers raise the elevator, your hand turns the key. I miss thinking about the future. Feeling warm in its regard. I miss the little things.

1 May 1 Permalink

Tear Through Skin And Bones

I think I became alright with being alone that night under the stars. Sitting on your porch; the picket fence keeping my thoughts in check. Keeping my hope from growing too large. A bonsai in my ribcage. Its tiny roots clutching to my ever shrinking heart. Dirt thickening my blood. I’ve become lethargic and slow.

I could feel my ribs cracking under pressure. I couldn’t help myself. Is my body cold and numb from the cigarette, or the winter air? I don’t know why I ignored my better judgement. Maybe it was to save myself for a minute. To lose this loneliness that whispers in my ear. I should’ve slept in the snow and ice. But I crawled into bed.

I guess that’s why I drink so much now. I don’t like feelings. They change. Maybe I just can’t be with people. I can’t share my bed. I can’t wrap us in wool without wrecking myself. But if you were to let this tree grow inside me again, I would let it sprout forth from my chest. Tear through skin and bones. Happiness is only real when shared.

1 April 2 Permalink

Fourteen Months

This winter air stings my face. I miss the drives up north. The smoke in my lungs. The fog building on my windows. Layer upon layer.

Charles had said that a love like this is a terrible illness; a sickness from which you never really recover. I believe those words wholeheartedly.

Fourteen months. Over a year since we saw the house with eyes. Fourteen long months spent reflecting on my ignorance.

I didn’t want to leave that night. To drive across the bridges I have since burnt. My ghosts and their fingerprints.

Hundreds of days; thousands of hours. Every minute spent thinking of you. A disease that has crippled my heart.

21 February 2 Permalink