not a builder

I’d rather you stay but

I can’t hold tight with a heavy hand,

Can’t jump with a lead foot.

Running is flailing and falling when

Limbs are imported objects,

Pieces unattached and inoperable.

This body was just given to me,

Dropped off without instructions,

And a builder I have never been.

Even just this morning

As I called out your name

Another voice entirely filled the quiet.

The dog stood at the edge of the bed baying wildly,

Just as frightened as I

By whom I had become.

the figure of sophia

and you're still hunched over the radiator,
which is slowly loosing warmth,
still watching for the door to open,

though outside you heard the gravel shuffle,
a whirring song only
the bluest goodbyes are sung to.

The apple in the icebox must be thrown away.

A heart with holes and browned edges

Such big bites for your lonely mouth.

An orison for the lonely

I let the lighter language make way
Mostly for you
Because years ago
Flowery and fascinated
By the words
Which escaped me
I received little more than the
Glazed and fearful glare
Of a father first presented
With a daughter
He doesn’t understand

i love to crumble easilly

Every time I see sunflowers I am reminded of the first love I made a lie. They are striking, strong and seek sunlight. When prompted I had those answers ready; I had the whimsy; I had you and sunflowers on my table thereon after. Mocking me, heads turned from me, smart flowers knowing when they are not wanted, knowing they are a prop of interest to a complex mind, knowing I loved asters, small purple wisps that crumble easily and thrive in crowds. I believe thorns too are involved.

My Face is falling

My face is falling. My face is falling,

heavy highlighted skin drooping like misted clay.

In this café I was approached by an awkward and hovering young man.

He told me I was stunning. He is here today and walks past me.

The couple beside me is new and the girl is too eager. Her face is smooth

and perfect and as he hands her coffee she looks up at him

in the practiced hook of beauty. I had a look like that just months ago.

 I could muster it up again. But today my face is falling.

My eyes are bushed. I am no different than the old man in the corner,

Covered in his beard, hacking up his dinner, his face falling into his lap.