my toes bleed endlessly after walking too many miles trying to make it back to your heart, presently hobbling around the door knob of "could we be together again?"
night calls day a snob, can't seem to pin out on the calendar the last time light fed up the tunnels of my heart..
taken aback, my back is my face in the morning how I focus on a past that has become a frozen thought..
i wish into shooting stars
i sing into dissolving moons
i take pictures of puddles I find collected in street asphalt crevices
to archive my reflections of the times
i'm looking for something to believe in
pushing carts at the supermarket is what I do to pastime now, hoping you'd call back this very minute and say 'oh you know what, I never left, you fucking kidding me? when I said 'bye' I actually meant 'buy''
the cervix of my quest keeps still births of conundrums
can i again find my way home?
can we again put together the walls that surrounded us and soft furniture of trust broken now like the conversation..
can we settle into two parts that ache in the bone to be one?
let the sinks shrink out where the weather mists
patching brick by brick, stacking sovereignty like vertebrae, let the chimney smoke once more,
send morse codes to space, let's invest in cosmic love- geometry of stars, mended lights, blended sights
philosophy of melody
when the oceans leave afros of bubbles ashore
i'm reminded of the globes of worlds we dipped our bare feet in and surfed into sunlight
now as each bubble bursts, each stretch is a mark that cuts my body into parts, splitting is not the way out especially when it goes to divide and not to share
my insight is left bare, my insides are desert spaces for rent
but only cobwebs fill these yawns of rooms
spiderlegs of saccharine memory found exhibition halls and made dark art farms of fungus filled
i'm not me most of the time
strangers taste smiles on my face but mostly i'm lying
this is not a call for a revolution or a tall order for a change in the constitution
this is a tear in a heart
a shift in a spine
a bookshelf which can't boast of bookmarks and touchy hands
this is a hum to revive, launch and ride the glossy waves
for when was pain ever a metaphor for freedom?