Your dress, dancing in the gusts,
like gestures, subtle – with
flowers sewn-in
that seem to float
in the winds. 

I should have followed them.
Instead I traced the outlines of
bones and depressions
of our fleeting moments
piling onto
themselves,
as if soft and pale carcasses of memories
that make us lose touch. So we
walk on, slowly,
away from this place,
our old space.

There’s a fear here,
of microscopes and telescopes
put to bare eyes not
finding much to make something.
Thoughts still grope for dreams
put into jars
named as stories
then shelved
where memories
lose themselves amongst labels.

Your geometry,
angles with curves that
shed light on the difference between
understanding and experiencing.
It seems it is here
that life lives amongst no answers.

Another pint works as filler,
filling the holes
quietly in lovely melodies made bitter
by over-thinking-over-time-and-over-reactions,
losing what’s close
with no grip on it leaving.

The ducks swim and the night is in the
water, a trail
left in silent propulsion as the cold air
kicks me out of this
each-and-every-day understanding.

This is wild.  I can sense this.

Boots on tight, me and a silent tree.

She said she wanted to stay the night.
Perhaps I could have been a
speed-walker, always shuffling away in that bizarre
sway.

Shoes on tight, me and a slight breeze.

I didn’t respond clearly, I was thinking about
sailing on the sea, salt water lips and sun
skin, free.

Wind’s blowing right, me and these salt-skin sleeves.

She said if she left, she’d never see me
again.  I promised we would,
likely on the sea.

I can see you in there,
as if stepping on equalizer
bars that throw you
frantically forward in electric
fancy steps
pointing at flaws
that flash before you. They’re all mine,
posted on a backdrop somewhere
someplace that memory
keeps and dreams
call for.

At home here,
as if spilling
wine on white carpets
careless, through chats spoken at
thin smiles
pasted on faces for
stability’s sake. The dizziness of it all
escapes you, and with
wine stained feet you leave
footprints to follow
always.

Standing,
as if emptiness became king,
I miss the fingers of imaginations
that place plots
of romance and rebellions
into dreams that blend this life to illusions.

The lines you draw, thin in precision,
separating me delicately
into lesser men that dance
like static drawings would
in a child’s mind.

You are not here.

My responsibilities that have
been abandoned,
unknown,
discarded,
to tumble to someone else’s feet.
I didn’t pick it up.