There is a space between my words and your flesh
I can still smell after you left
What I can’t remember is the thing you said
That made me burn inside
With laughter and shame.
Beyond the walls snow was falling,
silent flakes dropped to the ground.
Now that you are gone, I wander through the roots of oak trees,
looking for pieces of myself that used to fit together.
It’s been 17 years and my heart still whirrs like a crankcase needing oil.
The sound of my own blood pumping is enough to drive one mad.
It did in fact.
But I ran just quickly enough to stay ahead of each lub,
So far and fast that my own bones fell out of my body
and my remains skirted along the dirt in a sharp wind.
Long after I thought I knew where I was going, the breeze had taken my
skin aloft in a desperate flurry.
There was nothing left to feel the feelings I died to flee.
Except in the morning, once again I could hear your breathing.
That echo. The lingering whisper of your gently rising chest and a voice I
struggled to place, less forget.
Nobody knows this story, because I burned it and mulled the ashes into
paste for lining the bindings of broken books.
Now they read of my history
Unknowingly brushing past
Each moment, an epoch that lies between the fossil layers
waiting to be discovered or subsumed into some inky gold.
I’d still trade it all for one word,
one brush of your cheek against the paper of my mouth,
one drop from your cracked quill.
If you would give me just that
I would leave you alone all over again.
- of or relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process
- occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.