Talk To Me, Please

We don't talk anymore and I don't know why,

Silence would be difficult if I had reasons
This is rollercoasters in pitch blackness,
This is impossible!
I cannot see what goes on behind your sad eyes
and I do not know if I am supposed to wait,
I wait behind closed doors with warm palms
but every twist of the doorknob is ice
I do not know if I am supposed to keep feeling
Tell me to be numb and I will do it
Talk to me, God damn it, my legs ache,
Remember all those days
when I whispered through closed doors,
you spoke to me then in breaking anguish,
I told you how to find stars in the darkness,
I was a blind man but I knew the stars  existed
because you were beautiful and you existed,
and the universe knew beauty in that moment,
I knew it in my bones because you made my heavens,
you made the rhythm I carried all day long
and please, I know you don't have time now,
but talk to me for five minutes,
you promised that you would always talk,
I counted on your words to reach me
I do not care for what empty shore they come from
but I counted on the air of your breath
to feel familiar when everything else isn't,
I need to be brave today and I need you,
I need to know that someone cares I exist,
I need to matter in your eyes,
Tell me your silence remembers my hums
and I promise to bend you into songs,
Tell me your ice remembers my warmth
and I promise to set both of us on fire.

Image Source: http://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-close-up-Catherine-tear/298693/2111616/view

Mischief in Rain

There is mischief in the ancient rains
that strands friends across concrete plains,
makes blankets toasty-fire tent-cloths,
and of men makes nostalgic fire-moths.

Prop an old book the third time over teak,
pretend bedraggled pigeons don't seek
the fractal of your emotions worn too soon
like ornaments to define the rainy noon.

These winds have travelled over fountains,
and snow-rimed hunching grey mountains
to quench the stove-fire beneath pots of tea,
to render romantic breakfasts an impossibility.

Watch washed towels fly into certain doom,

force mothers to pin bright layers in dark rooms,
draw them taut like prisoners of war,
torture out the water from slow showers.

But 'tis a season for nostalgia and gloom,
I spill some Iron and Wine over my room,
and when the dreambugs come again,
I will tell them I found my Muse in the rain.

Image Source: http://florpurpura.deviantart.com/art/Coffee-rain-338518813

Drawing Blood

The third night she sucked my nape

and tied sleep beyond my bedpost,
I decided I was not kind enough to give
and receive nothing but long welts,
fading scars that prickle without her,
when nights do not hum with her vim,
audible whispers that make me turn,
guard my nakedness with quick hands,
throw frenzied shadows on ceiling fans,
to sweep her down before she flies into
a night that will sweat with anticipation,
I will capture her with sticky palms,
squeeze out everything alive in her,
feel my labour make her ruddy and soft,
see her blush between my fingertips,
nothing but blood where she once was.


Image Source: https://www.colourbox.com/image/abstract-background-watercolor-beautiful-hand-painted-on-a-paper-pink-red-orange-violet-yellow-image-3028930

At The Foot of My Bed

She sat herself at the foot of my bed
where my eyes could wane with distance
and hit her chatoyant pools softer than
my ratpacking gaze would hit otherwise
even as she tried to balance a smile
on unsteady lips, her hands pursed away,
as if their opening would flood my home
and I would bloat with ancient waves
that travelled a thousand dreary miles
to break at my shores of sand and shell,
break me into seas within small conches.

I parted a curtain and pointed through
at an old tree I would consult in rain,
let a smile daub my face with melancholy
even as she pretended to not witness
the calling of free songs in empty days,
songs that visit shores of sand and shell,
and become polite smiles across beds,
their storms hidden in closed hands.

Image Source: Fanny Nuska Moreaux

The Girl Who Came For Poetry

She was the fury of midnights noone sees,

I saw her waft through my marshes
(a drying stain on her blue sundress)
to taste the words that fell off my lips
every time my room reeked of poetry,
she came with shoeflower perfume
and sat across with eyes large enough
to be filled with my words, let them leak
into unmoving water with twisting colors,
like a rainbow that forgot to stretch taut
under the leaking beams of a lost home
where memories come to forget humility,
sit on paper like stubborn black forts,
raised letters to read with closed eyes,
she kissed them until the edges confessed
all their umbrage, all their fierce yearning,
and something broke in her then
with a sound she wore between fingers --
she knew the riots I lost old dreams to
but needed to hear them in my voice,
close her fingers around my messengers
and shake their nightmares over my rug,
and something broke in her then,
her eyes suddenly on marble elephants
in the darkness above the sooty hearth
as if to wrest away all rhythm from me,
from the ankles of inexorable tragedy,
and recede to the world beyond my window,
slow winds in the vacuums behind her feet,
She was the unspoken word,
ice-crusted trinkets left to thaw
and she will not come again.

Image Source: http://www.tuttartpitturasculturapoesiamusica.com/2011/11/agnes-cecile-1991-roma-italy.html

Rejection

Rejection feels like forgetting

everything that made you solid,
you were dangerous, rugged icebergs,
only smooth floes swim in you now,
There is no tragedy in rejection,
you will not bawl into soft pillows,
but lie half-awake and wonder
if all those glories were a dream
spun on wheels faster than Time,
Your mornings will carry promises
but you do not know how to trust,
how to leap into dances for eyes
that might not remember you,
all of you is wispy, hollow smoke
and you are afraid of winds
as if they know your emptiness,
a secret you did not know you had.

Image Source: http://www.tuttartpitturasculturapoesiamusica.com/2011/11/agnes-cecile-1991-roma-italy.html

Flooding Forges

Your lips feel like pulling leather
when I kiss you and bite down
into the scented pulp behind them,
your breath is mist behind waterfalls,
the calm washes over my face
but I will not stop to stare in awe,
my fingers are quicksilver in darkness,
feel them slip between your bends,
become iron that stokes your furnaces,
while I drink your defeated smiles,
quiver with your mouth on my ear,
feel hammers fall on red-hot steel
as my body shudders and every wave
reaches your shores, meets your fires
and extinguishes with loud hisses
and long sighs.

Image Source: Antoine de Villiers