Today was the first time
in a long time
I had to find a way
to explain your loss,
this sadness,
without-
by trying-
today was the first time
in a long time
I had to find a way
to explain your loss,
this sadness,
while attempting
to not
be either.
Six years of practice
and there’s still no nonchalance in death.
How do you answer
so that nobody
regrets the question?
Lipstick marks on a straw
like petals on a flower.
I think,
it was never about me,
it was always about you.
Three years gone and
I finally figured it out.
The peices fell
into place.
I had a dream about you last night.
We went to a library-
there was some party in the back but we kept to ourselves in the shelves.It felt so nice–
we were finally flirty,
finally so playful!
There was an ease and joy that every encounter
always seemed to lack.But even still,
we were nothing.
You only wanted the physical-
wanted to see others even, together.I got it, then.
But I hated it, too.Even in my own sleep-filled stories you do not really want me.
Only in dreams do we have a spark.And I know now,
I know–
this is the way it had to be.
You never said my name,
not really.
Just once out loud the last time I saw you,
just once in text to say goodnight.
I think it scared you–
it held too much power.
To say my name,
to hold it in your mouth and
let it flow over your tongue
and past your lips,
would mean I was inside you,
a part of you.
And you, who are too full of yourself already,
couldn’t bring yourself to make any room for another,
especially one so vast,
galaxies and universes swirling inside,
full of form and possibility,
while you were nebulous at best.You couldn’t say my name and it’s no surprise–
to say it, to get that close,
it would consume you,
burn you to ash.
I am too much for you,
with or without a name.
I feel like I’m playing footsie with your ghost–
you’re not here, but I can feel your presence.
If only you were closer,
closer.But then again,
you were once before,
and yet always
just as absent.
I don’t want to stop writing.
I may not have much in the way of
skill or craft,
but it taps something in me
that can lay otherwise dormant,
that will spend centuries in dust,
bone pressed to stone,
leaving only the faintest impression
of life
I should have known it was doomed
the night I came home
and all thoughts of you were interrupted
with thoughts of someone else.I knew it was precarious, then,
that the excitement of this new
was overshadowed with
lingering feelings of the old.Nothing ever realized, actualized,
but still in the background
all my hopes were given new life,
and you were lost in the undertow.I wouldn’t have given you up for the tide,
but you cut yourself loose.
And now I’m drifting,
pointing my compass,
following that star
away from here
away.I’m sorry
in reality,
you never stood a chance.
I wish I could recreate you with pen strokes,
turn paper and ink
into blood and bone,
punctuation and diction
to muscle and nerve.
Death never seems fair
but this,
this sticks —
If I could write you to life,
spine become spine,
binding to skin,
margin and gutter
to sense and sinew,
cover to cover
your book would already be filled.I would hold you in my hands,
feel your weight, your smell,
and then maybe
I could feel
that there is hope–
we are not all
lost
-dm
I’ve tried to trap you in words,
tried to describe what it meant,
who you were
to someone
that never even knew you.
Regret that never
moves far from the surface.
If I could do it again
I’d probably be just the same,
or, maybe, sadder,
more distant,
because I’d already know
the ending.
-dm
In the hormonal hangover
I wait for the fog to lift.It’s not fair, I’ll think,
as if I am making an argument
with the silence,as if it should be fair,
as if I ever thought it would be.
