Crushing, bleak and break,
the mechanisms of my matter
are corroded by salt —
they are choked with sand.
Ripping, tear and rake,
the solutions of my mind
are dry from wind —
they are thieved by sun.
River, ocean and lake,
the brittle hull of my bones
arches for touch —
it is weathered by surf.
Yet I am tethered by the gull’s cry,
a wrinkled goodbye —
you are terrible in ropes and weaves and cuffs.
Hope pleads the darkness from the butcher’s eye,
lips feed a thousand lies —
I cannot conjure love enough or trust
before time turns our hearts to dust.
Tell me again
the story of loneliness,
of storms we cannot see.
Rainy whitecaps whipping and
Descending to dark depths
where sweet and brine stir to combine.
There’s a fearful beat that persists in my chest.
Squealing agony of the railway brakes,
unyielding stone and aging towers penetrate a pensive sky thick with weeping clouds.
All is drab, distended, dripping, and gray.
Mists draw from concrete pads and breath suspends tensely in the humid negative space.
Strangers pass, each with a downcast gaze, masked face.
Amid this and all,
the unseen sensation of a conjured aesthetic — a memory of something long completed.
There is a sound here that you made.
Your resonance tattooed like a perpetual autumnal bearing despite winter’s biting snows and summer’s cruel sun.
Don’t despair —
I can hear you, and your eyes look cold like mine.