I recorded five:
perfect calmsuffer this,
while you are cutting up my poems,
rearranging lines and repainting the room
where we first met.
is it sad when we can say that yes,
we understand
we're setting fire to the sails of a ship
still miles out at sea,
but this is what it takes to dream these
impossible dreams,
it's times like this where even the stars
can't guide us.
so suffer this and suffer me
when I am in a mood to (feel);
to color in the broken bones
that are all
we can leave each other with.
streetlights on the corner in the coldthese are the things that I imagine:
we
are stopping ourselves beneath the boughs of our own futures
and we are not
letting ourselves breathe in deep
or
hold these hands and waste these moments
studying the lines that will appear upon our faces,
tracing patterns inside the photographs
of our own blue eyes,
these lenses that we are not
letting come into focus.
I am full of bad ideas and worse intentions,
picturing your face inside my dreams
(and deep within my eyelids when I breathe)
I would share the nighttime air and feel
your breath upon my cheek.
(oh, you were danger.)you are standing in the surf,<da:thumb id="392128374"/>
and you are holding out
a nail-bitten hand across the sea,
where confidence has become your only virtue
standing still while the waves
surge against your waist.
you are wearing polka dots,
forgotten -
not sundresses,
not
something less than that,
like red and black and
seafoam netting,
the strings of your bikini hang
while the ocean keeps you close
while the fog obscures your face,
your way,
this smile that has never really played
across your lips.
you are danger
in a way you have never been before:
the ocean knows it, the birds know it,
the salt soaked beach,
wearing away at the edges of your hips -
eternity -
knows it.
and across a minefield symphony
of shells
I can walk to you now, and fill my lungs
with ground that I can't see
and air that is too thick -
your hair in soaking strands,
your breath and your skin cold
and coated
in seawater,
your words a clam's lips apart
from mine.
and the words go into the lightyearsand is this the best we can hope for:
two ghosts who don't hate each other
(yet)?
we haven't sewn ourselves together,
we've just stapled all the blankets
and covered wearing seams with
ill-worn patches.
these hands are not the gentle kind,
but we were never the type for
soft touches and heartache, no
we were supernovas, burning bright
and desperate,
reaching out in one last gasp
for attention
and finding only
space
Give them a listen if you feel like it, and tell me what you think. I'm a little nervous about the whole thing.
Oh, and if you're interested, I'm very willing to take suggestions on what to record next.
Thanks for reading (and maybe listening) everybody. I hope this finds all of you well <3
