Memoria

When He asked why it takes you two at least two hours to decide on a suitable meal,

I wanted to crawl under His skin and pretend like His relationship with Her was ours.

I wanted to quit crying and stop staring at the bar wishing to find your long lost shadow along its insides.

But I’ve drank too much here since you left to pretend like I didn’t have enough.

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Textures Of Fruit

My last breath tasted like apricots.

As my heart flutters its last effort to fight for life, to fight for you – I wish that It stops before aftertaste forms.

I’m curious though…

Would apricots and death satisfy the dark, twisting roots of my character?

 

To The Man With Winter In His Hair

This evening I sit upright at the humble desk in my sister’s office.

Keeping good posture seems colossally easier ;

now that Atlas is no longer a title I cling to.

 

I hold a silver pen in my palm;

it writes my sadness on the lips that press against its cold exterior.

Cold…though not lifeless.

I remember the fingers that placed it on my notebook –

they belong to a man who towered over me like a titan;

sounds like one too – with winter in his hair and an embrace I find myself missing on evenings when a neighbor’s kitchen greets me with memories of slow-cooked chicken.

He wasn’t my father –

even if I wished he would be someone I could feel safe being around,

and for a time…

He was.

 

The visualization of his hands places a plum in my throat;

A karmic gift for hurting his kin;

Atlas is lurking around the bend of my conscience:

To have loved so infinitely

To have caused pain in much the same way.

 

Tomorrow I will build a box for this pen,

I will wrap the pen in linen and immortalize its past,

glorious life.

Perhaps the steel body will remind me –

That winter;

warms hearts when seeing the man who wears it;

smile at his daughter.

 

Le Anatomie Illusoire

You speak of playing with pebbles

your perfect fingers stroking their glassy exterior until calm.

I imagine my body shrinking to a blue crystal size

being transferred from index to middle…

from middle to wedding-

the way I sometimes imagine you pressing piano keys.

 

Conflicted;

My hand wanders along the edges of my most confusing body parts.

Skin cold and firming,

though soft with the gentle brush of ungroomed, stray hairs.

I don’t feel like a woman though I am made of more femininity than I know what to do with.

 

What questions have I not tried etching out of my skin;

out of my deepest peace and pieces

until shuddering explodes through the innermost in…

 

These muscles and tissues –

of what use are they without enough brain for ideas?

Is Brain worth much without Soul for direction?

Am I a perfectly balanced confliction?

Or do I yearn to be lady enough

to be the pebble in your palm?