We had read too much Sylvia Plath,
and seen too much Sally Mann.
Unlikely bedfellows, you and I.
Our mind was shrouded -
or was it infinite? -
echoing the incessant pounding
of tumultuous thoughts.

In that suffocating darkness
we laughed.
We set fires -
what we had read, red.
It burned our tongues
and left us blistering.

Our directions were misleading,
weightless we floated -
following smoke signals.

You know what they say:
two can keep a secret,
if one of them is dead;
As we were,
so devoid of empathy,
enveloped instead in ashes.

Skinny women in their best brassiere -
eating foie gras at the brasserie,
discussing the impetus of implementing
the metric system on the metro.

"C'est quoi ça?"

I explained it to the gutters.
     "Il n'y a pas de quoi!"

I remember - 
waking up to the sound of waves,
and the way you looked in the morning.

I wore love on my sleeve
as if I had spilled the entire contents
of my overflowing heart
onto all my belongings.
Lucky, you don't belong to me.

We sipped stale coffee,
watched the sun rise effortlessly over the water,
talked about nothing - lacing up boots, maybe,
supporting the weight of heavy eyelids.

You're awake but we're dreaming.
Toes touching riverside,
we're watching waves kiss the shore
infinitesimal erosion.

Sunlight spills through branches
in your skeleton garden,
while wings flap like heartbeat - 
resuscitating.

Garden sighs and spider bites,
it is morning.
No cacophony of dayBREAK,
just sleepy eyes open.

Sipping brews and subtle breathing
- this is being "a good neighbour",
and not fearing watchers on the dock,
we watch.
 
Weightless bones float in grey sky,
ephemeral musings over steaming mugs,
swallows.
This is not my home.

When things are not what they seam,
you let me down softly,
cushioned the blow.

The best part of pillows,
is they don't talk back.

Things took a tern for the worst,
so I had to swallow my pride.
I egret nothing.

My
stream
of
thought
is
frag
men
ted.

Puddles
of
words

re
f l e c
ting
raging
winds
and
cloudy
skies.

I want to understand
scientifically.
But think poetically.

These two are intertwined,
so I've always thought.

It is not coincidence that
I mapped the circles in your eyes
by looking at the galaxies above;
or that your body fits perfectly
into mine.

I should think that the world
is reason enough
to make a believer out of us -

Yet;
there's no god here.

I’m devoid of empty space,

All my demons have their rightful place,

When forced to clear out my insides,

you'd occupy vacancy inside my cluttered mind.

It’s no secret I was unprepared.

Body aching with weight I'm forced to bear.


Come back now, you pretty, fragile thing -

Can’t you see I’m just not as forgiving?