A B R A S I O N S

how many times

some days i am full of you some days i need to throw up

i only want to experience you: you folding, your unfolding, your collapses and rebirths, your iron forts and broken walls, your beliefs and convictions occasionally mixed in with irrational nonsense, idiosyncrasies and idiocies, the nuances that make you unmistakably and irrevocably you. and all the ways you say things like, “see, that’s the problem, you can never really know someone completely,” as if i don’t already know that. not understanding at all that i want to take my time to learn what i can. “i’m just another one of your projects, aren’t i?” if you were, you would be a guaranteed failing grade, but there’s no one evaluating us. there’s no promise here of future greatness or a college scholarship. no glory whatsoever. maybe that’s why it’s so damn hard for you to understand, the fact that there’s nothing at all to gain, just a fork in the path and whichever road we take self-deemed the one less travelled by. that’s what frost meant by the way, no one understands it. not even you. we can only survive for so long on our own self-reassurances. if we could live our entire lives like that, we wouldn’t need other people. and maybe i don’t need you, neither of us can know, but i want you and at least we can both agree that perhaps that’s a little selfish. but if you’re okay with that, i’ll manage to one day be, too. “this won’t come easy,” you say, “there will be more rain than rainbows.” nothing ever is. our planet is 70% water and so are we. if it didn’t rain, that would be a matter of much greater concern. wouldn’t you agree?

promises are the stuff we line the insides of ourselves with before the fall always every time expecting for them to protect us from the pain of hitting smacking into that deep rock bottom but always every time they fail us and perhaps the expectation itself causes to hurt more always every time we think we know better we line ourselves with these fancy flowery pretty little words and fall like the fragile little things we are expecting to survive every drop but always every time we forget that promises are more decoration and ornament than they are cushion or parachute and the ground hurts like fucking hell always every time

I am sea, you are sky, remembrance in every sigh

Some days, you are the bottom of the glass. Some days, the whole bottle.

I can feel you in the pulse of the universe, though faint, and unbearably distant, I feel you within the vibrations of every fibre, within every tick of the second hand. You may not be here, but you are somewhere and that is comfort enough for now.

Now, this may very well be a figment of my delirium, but more and more it feels as through the world fell apart the moment we did.

We speak too much, too often, and too insensibly of having lost things that we arguably had no possession over in the first place.

I wanted to be the magma under your mantle, the heat beneath the cool of your surface, the wick and flame to your solid wax. But a strange wind brought upon an untimely chill, and suddenly you, I, and everything in between came to a tragic still.

In colour theory, white reflects – perhaps that is why blame is so often shifted, displaced, put on another. Black absorbs.

That’s the thing about souls – they don’t choose, they just know. I’m not sure they’d know how to choose even if it were up to them. If what’s said about people and souls is true, then it is really a matter of the soul finding its match in another, the other half of the whole, the sense of home, of completion. All might be wrong in the world, but once our souls connect, that’s all that will matter. And what of a soul that’s missed its mark? I’m not sure. Maybe our souls aren’t either. Maybe we have to make a round around the block and come back to make sure we were right after all the first time.

words processed through a meat grinder, emotions chopped up and wrapped in newsprint, all tied together with a fine, never-ending string of sorrow. i could apologize to you a million times, and come short every single time. it’s not that i don’t mean what I say – i mean it with every fibre of be being. it’s the tragedy of inaction that we must eventually succumb to. i am so sorry, my love. i know the call, i know the difference. you never needed me, but you wanted me, and that always bears more weight. the butcher shop keeps misplacing my orders, so i stand in line a while longer, waiting for the day i can give you more than a sad sack of meat tied in string, the day i can give you the world as simply as you desire it, wrapped pretty in a bow.