you are apple pie and bullet proof
the way shoes fall apart is
the way being in love feels
with decaying leaves covering the
insects searching for weight to carry
home
we all have a way of carrying the earth
you can smell it on the palms of your
hands-on the bottom of his feet
at the end of a early august storm.
you can hear it in a nervous voice through
the thin wall of your city apartment.
you can feel it through her eyes and in her words
when she is pretending.
nothing is intended to last.
this is why i never understood the loss people
feel when someone dies.
i prefer reading hours of words
in this space that smells of cigarettes
occupied with half mugs of days old coffee, poetry, ashes
to conversating.
1809 pounds of bricks
covered with obnoxious fleas
nesteled beneath anxiously crawling bone and lungs
the desire to throw every glass and plate
against the kitchen wall
to watch every painting, every letter you wrote and then taped into your
journal, every photgraph-go to flames.
to leave this behind
to forget the way your skin feels stuck to mine in the cool summer mornings
with the colours of vietnam outside the bedroom window
the feel of your heart beating through your back against my chest
that calmed me down and cured my insomnia
my hand wrapped around the curve of you brain
the softness of your voice
that slowed my breaths.
i've never understood the loss someone feels when someone they love dies
until now.
the way being in love feels
with decaying leaves covering the
insects searching for weight to carry
home
we all have a way of carrying the earth
you can smell it on the palms of your
hands-on the bottom of his feet
at the end of a early august storm.
you can hear it in a nervous voice through
the thin wall of your city apartment.
you can feel it through her eyes and in her words
when she is pretending.
nothing is intended to last.
this is why i never understood the loss people
feel when someone dies.
i prefer reading hours of words
in this space that smells of cigarettes
occupied with half mugs of days old coffee, poetry, ashes
to conversating.
1809 pounds of bricks
covered with obnoxious fleas
nesteled beneath anxiously crawling bone and lungs
the desire to throw every glass and plate
against the kitchen wall
to watch every painting, every letter you wrote and then taped into your
journal, every photgraph-go to flames.
to leave this behind
to forget the way your skin feels stuck to mine in the cool summer mornings
with the colours of vietnam outside the bedroom window
the feel of your heart beating through your back against my chest
that calmed me down and cured my insomnia
my hand wrapped around the curve of you brain
the softness of your voice
that slowed my breaths.
i've never understood the loss someone feels when someone they love dies
until now.