Blisters

Cut out on my feet –
cigarette burn rounds–
from city streets
that used to greet me
with imitation fireflies
and flights of fancy –
dizzying and glorious.
Now cracking and porous
my heels no longer
enough to support
–me –

Lo, lost, in this city
I knew –
So well –
It’s a hell

from the second you left
familiar became terror
and all I could want
is to escape –
walk away searing
in the heat –
I burn my feet
on the streets
that used to love me.

For you

Writing words
as if they could touch you.
As if a sentence
were my arm outstretched,
my words – my fingers –
go through your hair.
A Full stop – a kiss,
a comma – a breath
that we breathed together.
This could not exist
within me
without you.
The twisted silver lining
of the aching heart is this –
after all of this
I still have my words;
you are still my meaning.

Absence

I strip inconsequentially,
hiding myself in insomnia midnight.
Your eyes aren’t here to see me.
My body’s outline
isn’t traced by your fingers,
it’s met by a queen sized bed
and cheap linens that drape
like disappointment.

Dreams of you.
Perhaps the consequence
of your disappearance,
fleeting and wonderful,
the morning light
will open my eyes
only for disoriented dust motes
and silence.