and I think I said goodnight
a half dozen times—
but it was only to hear
how many times you were willing
to say it
back.
You
read your favourite poem—
and even though
you promised
I’d get lost in the rhythm
I found myself
in the colours of your eyes.
I stopped counting
days
and prayed for shorter
nights
because full moons are always more
accurate when it comes
to measuring you,
and Saturday afternoons—
where I watched parts of myself
let go
by a perfectible sky.
You once told me
I felt like a rainstorm
but tasted like winter,
so the two mixed
and my heart became an ice sculpture
at my own funeral—
black smiles
black t-shirts
black
like your coffee before you’ve kissed it
sweeter.
You told me
that rainbows
are just reflected fragments
of light
but I think they are what’s left
when a heart is removed
and the sun isn’t suffocating
under all that weight
and that is how love feels for me
right now.
My wings are clipped
because I can’t seem to love things
that don’t leave marks
I am left
with all the answers
but you forget to tap the
question-mark key
on your phone
and I only say goodnight
to see how many times you will say it
back.
I love the way you hold my name
in your mouth
like a hurricane—
you tell stories
over the phone
because some words are meant to be
left on telephone wires
like old shoes
but I secretly love it
when we sit in a state of silence
because I’ve heard the mortality rate
is lower there—
and the only sentimental things
put in boxes
are love letters that actually come
and I have been saying
goodnight
to you for the last few
centuries
and I am just waiting
for you
to say it
back.

The truth is I love things that don’t matter, like the hollows where skin meets hip bones the truth is rainbows are just a type of light that has been cut open the truth is all your ex-lovers look the same in the dark the truth is there are too many hours in a day when I don’t hear from you, and it was the same number as yesterday the truth is lately my silences are mostly love letters, but blank pages look so fucking beautiful when you hold them.

Tangled writhe
of limbs;
havoc tide
of hips;
the faintest taste
of blood
in your mouth
tainted
by craving veins;
thoughts
stripped bare—
we shed all
that’s left
and write our selves back
into
dripping
wet
skin;
white-hot cliffs
jump to screaming deaths
while we gamble
our immorality
(just to stay alive).
Lips. Kissed raw.
Fucked. Into silence.
Anonymous. Now.
Even to ourselves.

It’s hard for my body
to know the difference
between a you gone,
and a you here.
Your mute breath inhales
all my words,
leaving only that
hush
you like.

I fill the disconnection with songs;
and you fill me with your dispassion.
It pierces my throat,
it floods my lungs
with silence,
with cold liquid lament.

You place me on a shelf,
with little deaths you’ve collected,
preserved
in the emulsion of
hollow passion,
and the secret-
that my silence, my nothing, is your favorite sound.
One you will echo.