I’m Sorry

I am not a mechanism, a tool
Some structure
By which, if you employ, you may use to heal old wounds

Nor are you for me
These scars have nothing to do with you
You may not attend to them

While I hunger
While you hunger
We are not consumables

We are afire
We are to touch and be touched
While considering what time has in mind

525600 Minutes Too Many

“Be done leaving,” I’ve begged Time

Stop the silence

525600 minutes, almost now

Only just this morning
Done biding for unspoken goodbyes
I threw the clock out the door

Glass heart that it has
It’ll not show it’s square-jawed face
’round my gold again

Into Saturday Night

I awakened him with a soft exhale
One that was on purpose

Long

The timing of which had nothing to do with anything
Except fate and skin and the sixth-sense that is subconsciousness

And though this was his Sunday
That blessed day of rest
Seemed unnecessary, he said

As we sank back
Into Saturday night

Feverish

Re: Incarnate

Memo to self:

When the sun goes down on all he said
I ask why
The battering continues

That the night, without reason
Brings more questions than respite
Is the very reason
I forsake
The bruises and words of him
This, our second time around

Same Measure

Jump through hoops
Come away singed
Whipped
Like a circus animal
Deserving this fate

But don’t believe
Whitewashing the past
Time
Or some forgiving heart
Will redeem you

Artist Credit: Tiger R., age 11

Blue Boy

The wind blew him in, the one I noticed

Late fall or early — does it matter, for he was the perfect shades of blue and blush

Minding his own damn business, but for feasting in my wildflower garden

I had seed to spare and time

There was not a thing more important than to study an old-new friend that day

Eastern not Western, and I knew him some lifetime before

miracle heart transplant

there is no Noah-gene abounding of me

no spin of the wheel offering another lifespan allowance equal to what you’ve long since spent

in silence, find truth

there is no infinite number of star-filled skies

no take-backs or do-overs, despite my shouts of forgiveness and this miracle heart transplant

in truth, find silence