Love, Lena

 He looked straight ahead and said,
"maybe you won't feel anything,
until you reach the big moments
that used to be filled with her presence.
Like Christmas and birthdays,
Easter, and Mother's Day."
I stared out the window,
as we drove down the highway,
headed for safety,
headed for a hiding place.
And though I'd asked him
a different question,
I knew his answer was the right one,
and the wisest words I'd been offered thence far.
Three months later,
those words stay completely true,
as the lights are up,
the stockings hung,
and I look for something that will never,
ever, be under any tree.

Merry Christmas, momma.

To Weep

The day the fire came
I wasn't there to pull you out,
you were unable to walk away yourself,
and though I think my intent to be right,
I likely wouldn't been able to save you anyways.
But you knew what you were doing;
you wrote your fate with a black-ink pen,
and signed your name on all the dotted lines,
you signed me over to the ways of the world
without you in it,
and you signed yourself over
to a world I've never seen.
The day the fire came,
I distracted myself with handiwork
and tried not to think
of the box you would come home in,
the tears I longed for you to see,
of the scalding you would feel,
the darkness of your watery eyes,
and the selfishness I harbored
in the bottom of my little heart.

Oh how I wish
I had a gravestone to weep at.

The Swell

And yes,
my chest has been torn open
to expose my little heart
to the weathering of the world,
and to the harshness of its love.
But it was an unwilling surgery
and it was secretly performed
with no sterile instruments;
I am infected.
I am now prone to injury
and agonizing affliction
without warning or heed
that will either cause me disease
or expire me completely.
So thrust is my heart,
into the violent seas
of humanity and grief,
and I am not free to swim away,
but I am forced to drown
in tears bigger than tidal waves,
in air that never fills my lungs.

And no,
none of this is alright with me.

I Conclude (For Now...)

I conclude, 

to try my damnedest 

to work this out 

on my own. 

Without even 

opening my mouth 

to ask you 

for help. 

You see, 

I'm such a coward

and a little self-concious, 

because losing you 

in any way 

would be devastating. 

I'm sorry. 

Bouquets

Bouquets of lost steps
sit on my night table.
I haven't watered them
in what seems like days now.
They are wilted little impressions
of dry and dusty ground.
I used to walk with you
when we were younger,
and in bloom
but I cut those steps
from the ground
to place in my vase.
I wanted them to sing me to sleep.
Maybe I knew
that you'd eventually stop walking
and wanted to preserve
one small thing before you did.
But even my sunny hope
couldn't stop the truth
from making those steps lost.
Like flowers, dead now.
Steps, dead now.

You're dead now.

Funeral for a Friend

I'm in my Sunday best.

it's raining, 

just like it would 

on an occasion such as this. 

There are no flowers, 

or little candles 

to usher you out,

and no commemorative picture 

of a smiling and eager face. 

There are no sweet poems 

or small speeches, 

no awards, 

no songs, 

just a box. 

Just a hole and some mud

with a shovel at the ready.

And when I look around, 

I don't see anyone else.

It's just you and I my friend, 

like it used to be, 

and though the time is coming 

to tuck you in and cover you up, 

I won't walk away, 

until I'm ready. 

I'm not ready yet. 

Aconite

You weren't my lilac 
cut from the tree
on the eve of summer, 
that I treasure for days, 
smiling like a child. 

You were the winter aconite 
hidden on the bottom 
of the forest floor, 
that I held in my hand 
for at least a little while. 

You caught my eye. 
You were yellow 
like the grin on my face, 
and you were delicate. 
I could strengthen you. 

I held up your beauty 
for a while, in my hands 
like Atlas and the world. 
You were heavy. 
Too heavy. 

I plucked off
all your little petals 
and let you fall 
back to that floor
that I salvaged you from. 


I whispered "he loves me not" 
and walked away. 

Fabric

We wove the wool
tight around the loom,
moving our raw fingers
back and forth, back and forth.

Laughing as we worked,
we wove our joy
and our delicate hope,
into the fabric of "us".

It wasn't until
your fingers got tired,
and your will became weary,
that I began to fear.

You used excuses
to avoid continuing,
as I toiled and fought,
to perserve our handiwork.

It wasn't until
you stopped weaving,
that I realized
our project was finished.

I took the fabric
off the old loom,
and cried,
as I unravelled it.

We wove the wool,
tight around the loom,
but not tight enough,
to hold "us" together.

Vultures

In this brain
with its rights
and lefts
I am circling
looking
and searching
for one way out.
I come back
to the same ruins
over and over
hovering around
all my losses,
failures, and mistakes.
A shameful reminder,
a torture I bring upon myself,
yet I can't stop.
I yearn for escape,
but it's my own fixation
that traps me.
How I long to break
all these things
that hold me
to these messy,
overwhelming,
smouldering, piles
of reminders.

How I long for selective memory.

My My

My my, what we have here
is a no-good, no-win, mess.
And I'm grasping at straws
tripping over what was, what wasn't,
and frankly, what will never be.
We have so much to rehash
relive, remember, regret,
and so much to leave behind.

I just can't see what the end will look like.
Can you?

Something Beautiful

Everything in my line of sight
is a slightly broken reflection
of what was once so beautiful.
My dull eyes used to shine,
with a joy that you inspired in me,
And my empty hands used to hold yours,
with such light and honest hope,
but now all I have are the memories.
The tiny snap shots of our story
that never had this end in mind.
There's no rewriting, no reliving,
just the one comforting thought:
that if I look at something beautiful long enough,
then maybe I'll remember what beauty is.

Smile

...And if you stop to think
about all the moments we smiled,
you'll see that this was worth
all the pain we'll feel for now.

Because the gifts you've given me
were of a heavenly calibre,
things I couldn't have dreamed of
or even have thought to ask for.

Though I may have failed to be
the one you'll be waiting for,
I know I gave the very best
of what I was able to give.

Even though we've lost so much,
along this road of misadventures,
I am thankful for the temporary joy
that I was allowed to feel.

That joy may not translate
into today, or tomorrow either,
but in the healing and the closer,
your memory will continue
to make me smile.

Please promise me you'll smile;
you never know what will happen when you do.

I Know I'll Repent of This in The Morning...

I have nothing more to say,
than this:

You saw my heart,
You knew my emotions,
You let them develop,
then you took it all away.
You've broken me,
to a point of confusion,
and I can't see You
or hear You
and I want You to know
that I'm not impressed.

You saw my fleece
and my honest cries
and you stomped all over it.
You saw us on the altar,
and our offering up to you,
and you provided no lamb.

In my anger,
I have nothing more to say than this.

An Open Fist

My fist is clenched,
knuckles white, palms red,
and it's clear that I'm holding on.
Because if I don't,
I'll lose you to the wind,
lose you to the rain.

I'm tired,
of the give and the take,
the give and the take take take,
so I will keep you hidden,
from the One who always sees,
from a God who always sees.

And we sit and cry
as if the end has already come,
as if the wind and the rain have won,
but we've yet to step outside.
We compare, contrast, categorize,
making sense where there is none.

Our incapable hands,
will be chaffed and bruised
if we continue this foolishness.
And as much as my heart
wants to keep you tucked away,
I know if I do, I'll lose you indefinitely.

So stand with me,
and raise your hands.

Richmond

And when it rains I hope you remember
how much I loved it,
How you would laugh at my simplicity,
and give me all your charmed words.
You meant more than nothing,
but all I could give you wasn't enough
for me to mean something.

Sometimes feet just fall this way.

When the bus passes through your town
I feel your memory in my skin,
inviting me to experience what it's like to miss you.
I miss you, when it makes the least sense.
I look for your face in windows,
scarcely aware of the fact
that I wouldn't recognize you if were right under my nose.

Sometimes feet just fall this way.

The Curtain Puller

I can't say that I've figured it out yet.
I wish I could ease your guilt, but I can't lie
You said these weeks would heal,
But I have yet to feel that knife leave my spine,
Holding on to every wasted emotion I have.
I take my place behind the curtain,
While you take center stage,
And as graceful as I'd like to be,
I feel no jealousy, just loss.
Never, will I be that star you're looking for,
Though I thought maybe this time I could shine. . .
You see my eyes averted,
You see my identity, bare and uncovered,
But it's not enough.
It's just not enough.
You see everything,
But sometimes I just wish you'd see me as beautiful.