does such a freedom exist?
a freedom that never heals,
that permanently bleaches your skin.
a freedom that crosses its arms —
exactly how you always imagined.
i want freedom like a heatwave
i want to be delirious and unquestioning.
leave me feeling putrid and thirsty
leave me always wanting x and y.
a freedom that is autonomic.
does such a freedom exist?
once more
when i gaze into the window
of an artificially lit room.
your face will be pressed up
against the glass
palms forward,
fingers spread.
i will be approximately
twenty-five feet away
when your lips part
in the semblance of an apology.
or perhaps you’ll be more
like varicose veins,
you will be unwelcome
after years of repression
because sometimes regression
comes to you in the form
of a figure
in an artificially lit room.
dandelion dimples
synthetic summer.
yellowed grass
that waves graciously
with shallow breeze.
i close my eyes
and i wait…
frayed green paper
coats the heart
turns it envious-
thieving heart
that still beats
and beats and beats
without measure
without occupation
never at ease.
frail bones plus
black hair
disintegrates to chalk dust
stains my t-shirt
never goes away.
coats my finger tips,
smears on canvas
exhale sharply-
never goes away.
fuck it-
right now.
because i miss you.
These words between us have always
been hard to articulate
even when i was first learning to speak-
the words would never roll effortlessly off my tongue
without first turning circles within my chest.
teach me how to speak to you,
like i am learning english for the first time.
tell me that you care enough to.
tell me that you’d board a train
(because you missed me).
i am waiting for the day when my phone will ring
and you will tell me you are on your way.
we’ll see each other for who we are,
we will learn each other’s mannerisms.
you will tell me stories from when you were young
and i will care to listen, and i will hang on every word.
and we will try and regain all the years we have lost.
until then, i will lie awake and wait
and it is at this time that my hopes will remain high-
and i will be high on false hope.
it’s getting better-
now that there is enough room
in this world for both of us.
i can stretch my arms out, wide,
without fear of knocking you in the chest
and unhinging your whistling windpipes,
without dismantling your youth ridden heart.
caffeinated lion heart,
stimulated rabbit tongue
time drips, drips, drips,
drops into my lap-
and goes unnoticed.
clasped hands raised to the blazing sun
turned red from years of holding on
in sweat and heat, in drought.
waiting for a muse like thunder, like a downpour
that would drench clasped hands,
in an unmistakable shift in paradigm-
releasing worldly shackles of cycles and patterns.
you are not a safe house
you are not welcoming or warm,
you offer no blanket of comfort or consolation.
instead you are like dead grass
that digs into my densely freckled shoulder blades-
the remnants of a summers drought, withstanding
as months collect under our door mat like dust.
if there is one thing i will remember about you
it will be that you always had staying power.
but you are not a safe house,
and i choke on the dust
that has shoved its way between us (again).
my consciousness clinging on to heaving lungs,
i no longer fuss
over whether you see me as your sac-religious savior,
or as dead skin flaking onto the grass
that i am constantly lying on.
