memories

I always think of my memories like this:
without sound, just lips moving,
playing on repeat, like a silent film
with a few glitches.

i think it's you

i think about the curve of the back of your head
as it connects to your neck
delicate and strong, like bones.
i think of the kisses i've lain there
soft, like a virgin laying on flowers
or stubborn, like wind against a mountain,
think of how this has changed me
like wine unto water, coloring
deep red, burgundy, sweet and pungent.
i think it's you
who i want to hold close
and treasure in my arms, like the
warmest of suns.

lonely

what does it mean to be lonely?
it feels like this:
every time you're home yet i'm alone.
so i sit by the window,
coaxing smoke,
out of dim lit cigarettes.
watch the chill break out of my skin,
and hope i can feel again.

i sit still in the tub,
as if on pause,
and listen to the water fall.

an ache, filled still 

with tepid water from the bath.

how do i still feel so unclean,

unsure and unredeemed,
with soap on the skin,
enclosed from heart to limbs?

now, now, it seems to be so,
my hands are trembling,
and i am alone.

you made me whole again.

lost in deserts
for some time
but you made me whole again.

dear friend,
i cannot comprehend
how you found me after so long.
and now i feel incomplete,
when you are no longer around.

dear friend,

for some time,

(some splendid little time)

you made me whole again.