Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Borrowed lives

I've never felt at home because
I've never been at home. I've always
Gotten by, clothed in
Borrowed lives
Not quite my own.

Like a hermit crab, I stay the same
At the core and when I've grown beyond
The shell that graciously did house me,
I crawl outside and for a moment
I am free, but curious and
Lonely.

So,
I see an empty shell and take a turn
For just a while; take advantage
Of the way that those around me
Seem to find some comfort in
The vague familiarity of what I wear,
Though still they're distant.

And then, just when I realize that it's really not
My own, this life, I quietly back out
And move along. Say goodbye
To those I'd loved for real but who
Had loved the semblance of another
Wrapped around me, and pieces break
Off of my heart and soul,
But at least I've lived two dozen lives,
At least, while those I leave behind
Are stuck in one.

Monday, June 10, 2013

You stop my breath


You stop it, and you re-infuse me with it
Every time you come close to me, every time
I hear your voice
Either in my mind, through the door,
In the room, or in my ear;
Or below me,
Moaning, growling slightly,
And my breath returns and joins and
Outpaces yours,
In screams, in never-allowed-out
Bursts of joy.

When we lay together, we breathe
The same
Pace, did you notice that? The same,
In, and out,
After the in, and out, of the body
And the soul
And the heart, or at least mine,
Watching your face as you tear at me,
Watching my fingers in your hair
As I shudder against you,
Over and over,
Holding on for dear life
Like it was the last moment on earth for me,
And it would be completely
Okay if it was.

No, much more than okay.
And god, the light:
It pierces through my brain from my belly
Where you are
And I watch you. Every move.
Every hair on your head,
Every curve of your
Beautiful face and your mouth
And your back and your legs
And your arms.

They hold me so strongly I forget myself
And don’t care about much else
But that
So I hold on tightly, but lightly
Knowing you must go
Probably sooner than later, but god,
The NOW, the you, skin pressed to me,
In to me, the voice I long for all the time
Now vibrating through my body
Will be the last thought
The last vision
The last smell and sound
That I hold with me
When I die.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

You are (not) in fact

They've calmed, the throes of
Wanting as this thing has leveled out
A bit onto an unknown, indefinable plane
All its own.

And it is always there: the floaty space
Between my head and heart, while
The other two transverse the real-er
Planes of existence.

I breathe deeply, and I feel you
All around me,
See you when I close my eyes,
And hear you as I fall asleep.

And you course through the veins
Of my existence 
While you are in fact,
Physically,
Rarely here.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Meditation

In the cooling of the night
The fright should wash away, but
There are darknesses we have not reckoned

With; remind us of the plight

Of mortals, humans; who are we?
We soon forget allegiance when
The ugly face of fear, it rears
Itself, but if we're silent, flees.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

Genuflect


Sometimes you get down on your knees.
Forehead to the floor,
Hands writhing, palms to the sky,
You surrender.

I am there now, willfully.
Beautiful things flow between
The pleas, the will,
And the wants
And the noise begins to quiet.

We have all been there before.
Forced there by dreadful
Circumstance
That shouldn’t be more
Than a memory but the body
Recalls that you’ve been there
Before.
But before, the agency was reversed.

The floor smelled acrid
While it now smells sweet
And forgiving
And you

Are free.