Dark December | poem

the memory

I miss the shadows that spin

past eyelids, onto the floor,
and legs sprouting like leaves

from blanketed branches.

I miss feeling your wounds

heal under my mouth.

I miss the coils

of coalish petals you left

on my pillowcase.

I miss the unseen

grins, minutes before sunrise.

I miss sleep talk, on and off,

biological alarms that sang

me awake. I miss limbs

against limbs, the art

of the sleepless, and the

blinking bruises of morning.

the lament

It’s Hell

to wash the mess,

to pick apart clinging wire,

to accept that my body

is just a body,

and our love

is shredded

wrapping paper,

unraveled piles

of glittering ribbon,

scarlet cellophane.

It’s burning candles

‘til wax coats the table.

It’s leaving the lights on all night,

waiting for a rush of dust,

a surge of music, a dash

of pink salt and a bite

of burnt pastry.

It’s sliding off the roof and

getting stuck in the gutter,

coughing when you inhale.

It’s waking up, then

falling asleep, then

waking up, then

falling asleep, then

waking up,

falling

the revelation

Wicks become bombs

when I wake to chasms

where you used to be.

I plant gardens where

you used to sleep, and

name the flowers

after our secrets.

I know you are

so much lighter

without my bed,

bare legs, morning breath,

or stars that bled

from my thighs.

I know you are

so much higher

without my plastic

ribs, paper chains,

or champagne hands.

You breathe synergy

without me,

and it must taste

like holy water. But

here I am,

staring at a screen,

bleaching rhodopsin,

fueling memory

with poison.