watched and waited for
a sign of recognition.
Your face is blank,
my words are ammunition
and we wait to
aim and fire.
I keep on pacing between
the lines and the states
and all the spaces I have
attended; all the same places
we've been and remembered
in conversation.
I felt your arm, heavy across
my shoulders- and gasped;
it could be the last
time your eyes see
mine for
a while.
We spent hours in a coffee shop
that charges too much, just
so we could say a few words. Just
so we could remember what
it was we came together for
in the first place.
The rain of those months, the single
spaces we occupied and spread ourselves
across and within; the days I found
out I could not speak for all the
reasons I couldn't say anything worth
mentioning. And for a while we just
sat and stared at the beginnings:
a labyrinth and the wild, dreams we
found in common.
I traced the outline of my mind
along the rim of the oversized
coffee cup, an attempt to hide
the things I cannot swallow;
this sweet caffeinated drink tastes
like the lump that erupts in my throat.
And you're still leaving because I
said goodbye, because I can't wrap my
mind around the idea. Because I lose
you in the distance and the change
in your appearance. Because I don't
know who stands before me,
or what it signifies.
Because I'm still searching,
and willing that we'll find our
lives on the opposite sides
of the world.
It felt like rain was coming and
then it came and the sky opened up
above us and it all came down upon
our heads. You were driving and I was
hunting for objects to fill this space because
I couldn't use the paints you bought
me and I couldn't make my mind get
past the hundreds of pages of readings.
And I didn't answer the phone. I couldn't
answer because it was you and what you
want is more than I want even though
some days you say it's nothing.
The rainy Tuesday evenings come,
and I spend them
laughing over new
and old beginnings.
It is a new destination for
night time hikes and my body
rests in a different place again.
The rain pelts the roof of the building;
on top of my hill I watch the cars
pass by, headlights like souls floating
through the night to some unknown
destination. Water splashes, constant
splashes against rubber tires worn from
pacing my street. My window is perfect
for watching lives drive past, my
hill is made of rooms that are only
mine. I can not share it with you;
the bed was made for one and my name
is on it. And the cars drive by just
for me.
And it rains and
rains and
rains wherever I
move to. Maybe
some day I can move
to a place with less rain;
or at least a place
with real snow.
And a winter that
doesn't pretend to
have mental diseases
that are only applicable to the
human mind.
It's chaos either way.
