A Few Short Words

In the dark, alone,

I’m scared so often,

but only behind my eyes.

There, lies.

A kraken wakes

and I hear it’s moaning.

I shudder.

How, I wonder,

when all around me is still.

What causes such insipid self effacement.

I hate what waits behind my lids,

like being forced to live again,

to recollect, is some great torment.

But honestly, the hurts are done

and all I force upon myself

are simple shadows of what has come

and cannot hurt, so much as sting,

but still, in the dark

I see the light behind my eyes

showing horror films that were my life

and keep me up,

awake,

alone

and shivering.

She says her peace like truth then holds it.

What a bitch, I think, as something in me screams and dies.

Three years won and lost like some back alley dice game.

I bet too high.

I go to speak and can’t. Can barely think.

I want to rant. Instead I look away, shame faced,

full of fear and passion I can’t feel.

My fingers reminisce over her skin from the safety of my lap.

She won’t look at me so I watch her mouth.

I watch her lips pucker around a cigarette, puff and part.

I watch the smoke coil between them like a serpent.

I watch them shape the words I already expect.

I can’t say anything, I have nothing to offer,

but I know she needs something, so I nod.

I want to laugh, or scream.

I want to feel something other than the numbness.

I keep nodding.

After a while she looks up at me. I can see tears uncried in her eyes.

Something like a smile eats at the corners of her mouth.

‘At least the morphine was good,’ she whispers.

I really need you,

though I very rarely say it.

Some days I’m so alone,

isolated in my skull,

peering out

through Perspex eyes

into plastic lives.

I long to be held,

to hold, to be told

that I’m ok,

that I’m fine this way.

I need your love,

like I need to love you,

to be real in your arms

if only for a time.

Black stockings,

straining to contain the bulging veins of age,

sensible shoes,

a slight heel and faintly worn alligator skin

print the only concessions to fashion.

A navy blue skirt, conservative length,

nods gracefully at better times.

Over the top of matching jacket,

peek happenings of blouse,

offering daring hints

of Pollock patterns in black and blue.

Stereotype lenses pinned to face,

pinion skin in place.

Steel wool hair

rises, looming in bouffant,

thin dry lips painted desperation pink

in the styles of her youth.

Shorn grass scent and fresh turned dough

overlap clouds like pressed felt

tacked to a dry blue canvas, slapdash

lashings of shadow attack at intervals

the palette of the day, its colours hewn

though unmarred, intransigent sunshine

in transient lines, cuts its fine ribbons

in time with the wind, swaying trees

and leaves in rhythmic assent.

If I hate my day, then I think of you.

I pull memories from my mind,

moulding moments like modeling clay

and look at them in different ways.

Every facet turned, is tacit,

beautiful and placid,

and makes me feel so…good.

I revel in it and find I’m happy,

burnishing the truth

I made a cage inside my head,

I plumped the floor to make a bed

but after years of lying there

I realized it was too bare.

So in my cage I placed objects,

the simple things a life collects.

Then one day I woke to find

the cage I’d built was not my mind.

Even with my props unfurled

I’d somehow made a hollow world.

All arranged, so neatly stacked,

they couldn’t hide that something lacked.

I’m in love with the horizon

though I know it’s just a ruse,

when every time I wander there

the fucker up and moves.

One time I tried a sneak attack

by walking in reverse,

but when I turned around to look

the distance was perverse.

I wasn’t any closer,

I just couldn’t understand,

when wherever I am standing

I can grasp it in my hand.

I try so often now

that it seems like self abuse

but I can’t seem to figure out

why my passion’s so obtuse.

Sometimes I think I see you

in the street,

before I realize it’s a lie.

There’s nobody like you,

simply wishful thinking

and the spectres of my mind

that populate the streets

and bring a smile to my lips.

I fall asleep listening to my thoughts

as they pad through my head

with hard soled intent.

When I sleep, I dream of you,

and I wonder,

what are you doing there,

so out of place?

When I wake, I wake into

a maddening silence,

the emptiness of my bed,

a longing in my arms,

and I wonder,

where have you gone?

Comfort finds its purchase

in a three a.m. embrace.

Two bodies intermingled,

two hands that interlace,

outside and all around them

the coldness has it’s way

but holding one another

keeps the chill at bay.

I threw a stone across a pond

and noticed it not sink,

which made me skeptical.

So I made another choice

and threw, this time

drowning my intentions.

A wake, rippling waves

at a minutia of knots

across the skein of time.

An open book,

written with words I’ve never known,

I teach myself to read

in stops

and starts

and stutters.

But reading is it’s own reward

and learning loves no other,

so I turn another page

and slowly lose my stutter.

In learning words

I learn to love

their careful application,

their oh so perfect placement

and delicate dictation.

After I’ve turned every page

I’ll read again, most every day

to know that all the words within

grow finer as they age.

When I think of you, amongst the throng,

you’re a shining light, a heartfelt song.

You’re the clay that binds my bricks together.

You’re the education that makes me clever.

You’re every smile I have inside.

You’re a slender bridge across a great divide.

You’re every other different thing.

You’re every song I’ll ever sing.

You’re everything that’s good and free.

You’re everything, just that, to me.