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.

Nostos + Algos

A place

I felt at home,
and I desire completely
but can’t return to.

Entomologically

nostalgia creeps
into my memories
and into my dreams,
the places you still exist.

Fragmented and illusory.

Definitions don’t define me,
but confuse me, confine me
to torturous exploration of meaning.

We were not sustainable,
you were entertainable,

not by lute or flute
but sing bard sing.

In a cracked voice
we ended Spring
under the blaring Summer.

My ice-cream melted
into the sea
before I could eat,
as it always does.

Wonderer, Wanderer, Icarus

I will not be bound
by blood, cum or spit.
I will not be kept
by unkempt linen on a bed,
or passion-thrown to a floor,
by light-filtered cigarette smoke.
By knotted umbilical cords,
and strained Christmas dinners.
Untie garden hose and fly,
from nest, from home
when I know my wings
haven’t quite yet grown.
Call me not Icarus
if branches break and
my branches have broken.
I’ll be bound by will
not water that leaks,
or tries to drown,
into this sinking ship.
I’ll jump, I’ll fly.