#burningmuses

all that is left of you is tethered to a tremor.

your absence widens, and keeps on widening until we are finally separate.

the gulf between us is a star-fed river.

the gulf between us is a light-starved chasm.

I watch you convulse, collapse into yourself.

you, a soft nebulous shadow that grows warm and bright, incandescent, from a seed.

so quiet. so very quiet.

you spin away in the vacuum of space. pulse light. scintillate morse code answers.

i hear the silence.

i hear everything you want to say.

With a picture of you,

My most precious possession,

For a touch that won't come.

While the world slept

I dreamt of desires

Sinking deeper into their secrets.

I coveted all that I could

While leaving so much of me

That I never thought I would.

Through the realms of possibilities

I closed my eyes and prayed.

Where were you to guide my destiny

While I waited to fade away.

* they always tell you in times of stress to breathe,

just breathe.

but what if it’s your inhalation that’s toxic?

...if the molecular composition of air can no longer sustain you, be assimilated?

...if your own lungs have turned against you refusing to ingest one atom more

of this vile, odious atmosphere that's tainted, once shared by…

If you were to ask me

“What do you miss the most?”

I’d almost instantly tell you

“That big ass tree you see everyday —

What a majestic beauty it is.”

And you’d laugh, because… unexpected.

But you’d instantly know

I’m lying.

You always do.

But what good will the truth do?

It won’t bring you back

Nor will it alter the course of collision

Some truths are better left

We

live

over

again

every

memory

gaining

a new

understanding

we

were

always

happy

even

though

we

thought

we

Somewhere -

There’s an old man not so silently Grinding his teeth Whilst rocking on his porch

Seeking a seventh-day constellation In a six day week.

And at some point -

He mumbles, he swears it’s there like: The rainy-day money stored In a book long forgotten.

Maybe it’s in Xian.

Maybe it’s in Denver.

Maybe it’s in Mom’s cooking.

It’s definitely in antiquity, A grief on every other Wednesday, now, And wish for the gray to go away.

NaPoWriMo Vol.2, 4.7.2022 “TV Tinted WIndows”

Townhome tenements Whose midnight oil,      & late night toils           do you attend to? Muggy air overstuffed with memory Presses against each pulled-curtain corner

What candlelight vigil wards off the dark First steps,     & final steps Quietly plod uneasy of their footing

There is no idle misery In pursuit of suburban mystery No answers found will satiate     & bring ease to whitewater concrete Coursing sidewalk suburbs

Haunted neighborhood walks Past yards that never clutter     & silhouettes through the sunshades

Do I dare to trespass seeking satisfaction? To line my curiosity     & not my pocketbook