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.
beginings.
a silhouette against the sun,
all shadow, a young man,
my first memory of that year.
a girl with porcelain skin,
the darkest angel, my savior,
come to find me in this place.
he leans over a desk, a smile
playing on his lips, lighting up
his coffee-colored eyes.
she grasps my hand and traces
every line and contour, singing
a soft song i can't remember.
his skin is warm, our hands brush
while we read the words written
by people we'll never know.
she always told me things would
change, but then, i had music,
and his face, and need for nothing else.
all shadow, a young man,
my first memory of that year.
a girl with porcelain skin,
the darkest angel, my savior,
come to find me in this place.
he leans over a desk, a smile
playing on his lips, lighting up
his coffee-colored eyes.
she grasps my hand and traces
every line and contour, singing
a soft song i can't remember.
his skin is warm, our hands brush
while we read the words written
by people we'll never know.
she always told me things would
change, but then, i had music,
and his face, and need for nothing else.
lullaby.
i squint my eyes, looking
through the window, and
the streetlamps make stars
that shimmer on the black.
her face is the picture
of tired resignation, of
peace in the knowledge
that she had lost a long,
hard fought battle.
of everything, i remember
details, lighting cigarettes
on the stove, the chill
of winter air on my face,
the perfect way your lips
pressed against mine.
i let the music sing me to sleep,
wishing it was you.
through the window, and
the streetlamps make stars
that shimmer on the black.
her face is the picture
of tired resignation, of
peace in the knowledge
that she had lost a long,
hard fought battle.
of everything, i remember
details, lighting cigarettes
on the stove, the chill
of winter air on my face,
the perfect way your lips
pressed against mine.
i let the music sing me to sleep,
wishing it was you.
traces. (the flight of the bishop.)
walking streets in seattle,
a little boy asks me to
draw a card, any card,
from the deck he offers.
i came here yesterday or
a hundred years ago,
in the middle of the war,
to trace the footfalls
of dead men through
the east.
i grasp a card between my
index and middle fingers,
and turn it up so i can
see.
queen of clubs.
almost like magic.
in an instant, a lifetime
crosses behind my eyes,
the flash of lighting across
the sky, tears ruining the
ink on a page, a teacup
shattering on the kitchen
floor, figures in black and
white spinning across the
ballroom.
queen of clubs.
it's time to run again.
a little boy asks me to
draw a card, any card,
from the deck he offers.
i came here yesterday or
a hundred years ago,
in the middle of the war,
to trace the footfalls
of dead men through
the east.
i grasp a card between my
index and middle fingers,
and turn it up so i can
see.
queen of clubs.
almost like magic.
in an instant, a lifetime
crosses behind my eyes,
the flash of lighting across
the sky, tears ruining the
ink on a page, a teacup
shattering on the kitchen
floor, figures in black and
white spinning across the
ballroom.
queen of clubs.
it's time to run again.
september.
i sit and drink my evening tea,
and settle in to read the old letters.
the taste of orange, it lingers on
my tongue.
you threw up the blinds,
to let in the full glare of
a bright cold day in the city.
i lay by the lake and breathe
in the smell of the earth,
so like your skin.
meeting strangers at dawn,
you resettle your glasses on
your crooked nose.
evenings alone, with thoughts of you.
and settle in to read the old letters.
the taste of orange, it lingers on
my tongue.
you threw up the blinds,
to let in the full glare of
a bright cold day in the city.
i lay by the lake and breathe
in the smell of the earth,
so like your skin.
meeting strangers at dawn,
you resettle your glasses on
your crooked nose.
evenings alone, with thoughts of you.
immortal. (bishop and cassiana II)
walking these deserted
corridors, the ruin of the
old palace, my footfalls
echoing off the cold stone
floors, i pass a painting,
softly lit in the early
morning's light.
"bring me the universe,"
a whisper in my ear.
the girl regards me,
frozen in time, precisely
as she was back then,
her eyes cold, no blood
warming her the porcelain
of her cheeks.
"show me to the stars,"
a breath upon my neck.
the whole world contained
in her crystal earing, the
eyes of god that shine
from the diamonds of her
necklace, frozen light,
perfection caught in
the eternity of the ring
upon her hand.
"let me dance with the angels."
cassiana, come to find me again.
corridors, the ruin of the
old palace, my footfalls
echoing off the cold stone
floors, i pass a painting,
softly lit in the early
morning's light.
"bring me the universe,"
a whisper in my ear.
the girl regards me,
frozen in time, precisely
as she was back then,
her eyes cold, no blood
warming her the porcelain
of her cheeks.
"show me to the stars,"
a breath upon my neck.
the whole world contained
in her crystal earing, the
eyes of god that shine
from the diamonds of her
necklace, frozen light,
perfection caught in
the eternity of the ring
upon her hand.
"let me dance with the angels."
cassiana, come to find me again.
the usual suicide (bishop and cassiana I)
"this is what it's like to really be alive",
says the girl, a black dove placed
serenly above everything else,
on this Chicago skyscraper.
she's holding a rose over the edge,
and pulling off petals,
one by one, letting them
fly into the crowds below,
like some forever-game of
'he loves me not.'
the whole city burns behind us
and in our eyes.
i don't bother to stretch out a hand.
"it's not as if i want to die", she says.
and she smiles the way she did when i
met her a hundred years ago.
"i just want to fall.
what happens after, i don't know."
we're the whole world while she
pulls off the last petal, and lets it
disappear, blown off into a starless night.
"if you could fall forever, wouldn't you?"
says the girl, a black dove placed
serenly above everything else,
on this Chicago skyscraper.
she's holding a rose over the edge,
and pulling off petals,
one by one, letting them
fly into the crowds below,
like some forever-game of
'he loves me not.'
the whole city burns behind us
and in our eyes.
i don't bother to stretch out a hand.
"it's not as if i want to die", she says.
and she smiles the way she did when i
met her a hundred years ago.
"i just want to fall.
what happens after, i don't know."
we're the whole world while she
pulls off the last petal, and lets it
disappear, blown off into a starless night.
"if you could fall forever, wouldn't you?"
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