promise me.
i want you to promise me,
no matter what happens,
that you will never look back,
never regret it,
never think this, any of it,
was a mistake.
promise me.
promise that years from now
i'll see you in a coffee shop,
and you'll remember this,
all of it.
promise me.
promise you'll come back here,
lazarus, return in the rain
and tell us why you
ever left in the first place.
promise me.
promise, swear upon this lampost
that these will not be
that last words you write
in uneven hand on the
wall of my room.
i promise.
Monday, September 7, 2009
the end of the summer. (bishop in the light.)
the fountain's come back on.
i went there tonight, really,
i've only just returned,
and there was some
distant woman's perfume
haunting the air, tempting
me down to the water's edge,
and laying me to sleep upon
the rocks.
our shadows grow and shrink,
caught in the light of passing cars.
i grasp your hand.
i went there tonight, really,
i've only just returned,
and there was some
distant woman's perfume
haunting the air, tempting
me down to the water's edge,
and laying me to sleep upon
the rocks.
our shadows grow and shrink,
caught in the light of passing cars.
i grasp your hand.
creation.
i can see her even now,
view it from somewhere
behind my eyes, or maybe
i just feel it.
it's the girl from the school,
who goes for coffee and
gets tea, swaying slowly,
gracefully, alone on the
floor, and i can't remember
if this was a dream or not.
this is the inspired kind of
beauty that looks effortless,
inborn, flawless, floating,
the very picture of elegance.
the girl who spends years
to write just one perfect song,
the kind of song that seems
effortless, flawless, like beauty
just happens, mirroring truth.
the girl i see smoking in the dark,
the cold wind coming over from
the water, her face lit by a single
candle, her eyes catching the light,
and her tears falling, to create
the stars.
view it from somewhere
behind my eyes, or maybe
i just feel it.
it's the girl from the school,
who goes for coffee and
gets tea, swaying slowly,
gracefully, alone on the
floor, and i can't remember
if this was a dream or not.
this is the inspired kind of
beauty that looks effortless,
inborn, flawless, floating,
the very picture of elegance.
the girl who spends years
to write just one perfect song,
the kind of song that seems
effortless, flawless, like beauty
just happens, mirroring truth.
the girl i see smoking in the dark,
the cold wind coming over from
the water, her face lit by a single
candle, her eyes catching the light,
and her tears falling, to create
the stars.
mid-december twilight. (dreams of the sleepless)
draw me something,
a picture, a postcard from
where your dreams sleep.
pull your hand across your throat,
and beg the question, and
fold your hands, as if in prayer.
the clouds roll across the skies,
this is mid-december twilight,
and we've bolted all the doors.
eyes, a study in light and shadow,
the color of my coffee that morning,
a glass raised to lips that will not speak.
cut your hair and try to change,
your face is framed, they've
trapped us in our sitting rooms.
the library at night, tea stained
newspapers and dimmed lights, and
the sound of poetry in the next room.
draw me something,
a picture, a postcard from
where your dreams sleep.
a picture, a postcard from
where your dreams sleep.
pull your hand across your throat,
and beg the question, and
fold your hands, as if in prayer.
the clouds roll across the skies,
this is mid-december twilight,
and we've bolted all the doors.
eyes, a study in light and shadow,
the color of my coffee that morning,
a glass raised to lips that will not speak.
cut your hair and try to change,
your face is framed, they've
trapped us in our sitting rooms.
the library at night, tea stained
newspapers and dimmed lights, and
the sound of poetry in the next room.
draw me something,
a picture, a postcard from
where your dreams sleep.
travelers.
i went back to all the places
we'd been. i think i was only
hoping that this would bring
me closure if not clarity,
reality if not reason,
and an end if not an epilogue
to this tragedy.
you weren't there, of course,
but i felt as if you were just
moments before, like you
might've just left, your
cologne still on the air,
your laugh still echoing
about the empty room.
like we're all of us going
to keep going back after
one another, thinking
we're the only ones.
nothing would suprise me anymore.
we'd been. i think i was only
hoping that this would bring
me closure if not clarity,
reality if not reason,
and an end if not an epilogue
to this tragedy.
you weren't there, of course,
but i felt as if you were just
moments before, like you
might've just left, your
cologne still on the air,
your laugh still echoing
about the empty room.
like we're all of us going
to keep going back after
one another, thinking
we're the only ones.
nothing would suprise me anymore.
the palace of martyrs.
he could be praying,
his head bowed to rest
upon the notebook on
the desk, his arms spread,
crucified, to hang
off the edges, his black
jacket with the sleeves
pulled down, his thumbs
through holes to keep them
over his wrists.
the sounds you hear,
maybe he's singing or
simply speaking softly
to the people who
aren't there.
perhaps it's some hymn.
he could be crying.
this is the palace of martyrs,
a room to see them burning,
the pain reflected in their eyes,
all of them singing some shared
sorrow, of crosses to bear and
secrets that you only learn
through this slow suicide.
she will not come for him.
this is what it's like to watch someone die.
his head bowed to rest
upon the notebook on
the desk, his arms spread,
crucified, to hang
off the edges, his black
jacket with the sleeves
pulled down, his thumbs
through holes to keep them
over his wrists.
the sounds you hear,
maybe he's singing or
simply speaking softly
to the people who
aren't there.
perhaps it's some hymn.
he could be crying.
this is the palace of martyrs,
a room to see them burning,
the pain reflected in their eyes,
all of them singing some shared
sorrow, of crosses to bear and
secrets that you only learn
through this slow suicide.
she will not come for him.
this is what it's like to watch someone die.
flutter. (bishop's swan song.)
i trust my feet to take
me where i need to go.
i ended up at a ruin, tonight,
under a star strewn sky,
clouds the color of roses
falling across her face, hiding
the moon.
i lay down upon the drive,
and rest my eyes, remembering
my own stars.
fire dancing, like we did,
in front of the grand window,
to our own music, alone where
the whole world could see.
now, weeds grow up in front
of that same window, and
it is too dark for me to see in.
here, i am transparent, a
fluttering thing caught outside
it's own time, as unreal as
the mists the fountain casts,
the words fading from the
wall of a room where
no one will sleep again.
i cannot see, but i can imagine
the rooms, the carpets now
more stained, things abandoned
and overturned in your haste
to escape, myself included.
i rise from the drive,
the clouds now darker than
i remember, the lamps shining
but not cuttng through the
veil of the night, and
i trust my feet to take
me where i need to go.
me where i need to go.
i ended up at a ruin, tonight,
under a star strewn sky,
clouds the color of roses
falling across her face, hiding
the moon.
i lay down upon the drive,
and rest my eyes, remembering
my own stars.
fire dancing, like we did,
in front of the grand window,
to our own music, alone where
the whole world could see.
now, weeds grow up in front
of that same window, and
it is too dark for me to see in.
here, i am transparent, a
fluttering thing caught outside
it's own time, as unreal as
the mists the fountain casts,
the words fading from the
wall of a room where
no one will sleep again.
i cannot see, but i can imagine
the rooms, the carpets now
more stained, things abandoned
and overturned in your haste
to escape, myself included.
i rise from the drive,
the clouds now darker than
i remember, the lamps shining
but not cuttng through the
veil of the night, and
i trust my feet to take
me where i need to go.
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