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,

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.


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