[livelovebreatherepeat]

In my mind, you are pinned to a grate, twitching softly,
Guttering light gone from your eyes.
In my memory, you are horizons dripping gold bloodheat,
Smile a fence hinged with secrets; beg, open, taste.
So confess; did you struggle? Did soft skin burst
At touch of hard metal carcass’ contact, or did you die
On the spot, and how much blood seeped into pavement, and
Was it fast and what did you think of and did you speakthinkbreak-…

I want to give you closure, beauty, an image to display
The perfection of emotion, but have you ever loved like that?
We were harshfasthaunted like bright burst fireworks. In my chest
A light burned, guttering
Now, I never told anyone this aloud but
I loved you. I did.
So what are they saying, when they talk about loss
If we cannot capture the intensity? Or maybe
We just write it for ourselves, try to understand, trap it in a bottle to
Replace the grief-torn hole and-
Stopbreathescrap, all coming out wrong, and
I don’t know how to explain, so-…

So, I know that you’d hate grief, but
I can’t ever forget this; those eyes, crystalline and clouded and
When you died, it was like
You smiled that heartbreaking smile, lay down in the road,
And let the cars roll by and
Shatter my sun,
because

In your mind, you were rearranged echoes of eloquent epithets spoken prior,
In your mind, I was the brightslickpain breech of a World.

Precious Gems

If I
am gilded bait, fishing
for disapproving looks,
conformists bathing in the glow of their discontent (contempt
is a commodity to these white collar brats) then that
would explain the snapshot attraction, because
scavengers like you could never
ignore shiny things.

“Did you know,” you’d said,
“a group of ravens is called an unkindness?”
and when I heard this I laughed so hard
I spilled milk all over your kitchen counter, splattering
English assignments with cold white drops, and
I wouldn’t drink milk for two years after
you were gone, “And did you know
the common raven cheats on its mates, and
they date as teenagers, and
they’re terribly intelligent, and-”
“Edgar Allan Poe is not a bible for teen poetry-”
“Well, yes,” you’d said, always interrupting, “but he’s brilliant,
isn’t he?” (You pretentious prat.)

Sometimes, if I
am left alone, I remember
the way the sunlight filtered in that day
and dusted your hair iridescent with gold, and
I think about Poe’s young, ambiguous death, and
the iridescence of ravens’ feathers in the light, and
how you loved “Lenore”,
were the one who was comforted by images
of paradise after death, and I
am the agnostic idiot who always loved
“The Raven” because-
well, yes, it was for you, alright?
only just for you,

Because you
would always search for the diamond
in the rough, the sliver
of silver in the clouds,
always
collecting gold and glittering baubles, lining
tattered nests in pearls of wisdom, you
will always be the raven, quothing, and I
am not the one who-
I… am not Lenore.

Amateurs

I watch the moisture pool on furrowed brows, eyes
a fluid stream of motion flickering back
and forth, me and the paper – the mechanical pencil –
the light from the windows and the sounds of our breath.

I’m not a model in body, no
height or thin figure, but when he pleaded
for positions, I let myself be rigged
like a puppet – strings pulled taut,
arms held out as he measured
and squinted, tilted his head,
bit his lip in the noon light and smiled at the end.

I want to give something back; more
than this simple gift, because if I stand
in the soft light of this room I can say
I was a part of his art, and
I want to thank him, tell him
that it’s okay to spend sleepless nights
sewing jackets no one will wear, and
that he’s more talented than prejudices, and that
it’s okay to watch the fashion shows with baited breath
when you can’t wear the dresses
the models display.

We want to be more than closet amateurs,
life in drawing and typing – him and me –
but when I write it’s not validated
the way his waistcoat sits tight
around Belle’s curved hips. He told me once
that my stories said so much more
than his jackets but when I paint
an ink picture – Boy who doesn’t cross-dress
for gender but because
he likes fashion and he wants
someone to wear the designs he can’t share –
I want to do him better justice than syllables – ink –
I want to be better;
Better than this.