i consider desperate moves

dodges, breakaways, headfirst headlong dives into air

that smells of peaches and crawling mosses

my hand disappears into rock soft as sunlight

trapped, my head bobs on the surface of deniable waves

i turn, breathe, and surrender

to the terrible wonderful finality

of drinking down the day

i am awake, strangled
by half-composed tunes
that my subconscious sang for you
in my dreams i knew the words
but they have fallen from my memory
and i’m left with the ache of you
(the one thing i can’t forget)

mixtape mistress

the way to my heart
is through my ears
want to win me?
send me songs
mate melody with melody
confound me with lyrics
until i no longer comprehend
who you are
or who i am
until it doesn’t matter
until the only thing to do
is disappear

the gravity of my insides

everything falls from me,
coins into a waterless abyss.

words fall as anchors,
hair cords as lifelines
that i cannot grasp
(my arms have also slipped away).

i am floating, weighed down
by the gravity of my insides
which also betray me
by exiting with my breath.

in your silences

you’re the reason i am where i am now
and where i am is nowhere near
you and your antics, your mistrials
your misfires or your silences

and where you were
was never where i’d been
we’d only sidestep,
dance, pretend

i’m the reason you are where you are now
and where i am is nowhere near
you and your songs, your rare smiles
your breath, your words, your promises

and where i was
was never where you’d been
we’d bash our hearts
together, then

you’d be the reason i am where i am now
and where i am is not quite clear
to you, or me, and all the while
i’m listening to your silences

i’m listening to your silences
i’m listening to your silences
i hear you in your silences
i’m with you in your silences

the henchman

i dare not speak of you.
if i give you a name, if i shout your statistics
(or even whisper them, sotto voce)
you will know me for what i am:
a terrified, thrill-seeking mishmash
of bystander, armchair quarterback, and henchman
praying for more time
so i can watch the axe fall in slow motion.

my own murder

time is no longer my accomplice

i can’t get away with my own murder
the way i could when days were without number

now each sun is an accursed gift
mine not to squander but to hoard jealously
to protect fiercely from flood and famine

i raise my fists in worshipful defiance
to find that they rest in my lap, open,
waiting for dreams to fall through
into the future of my past