and whole enough to keep writing poetry
I am smearing pencil marks with the tips of
my fingers, waiting patiently for the ground
beneath my feet to shift
and direct me towards a logical solution
for the puzzle this life is becoming.
I hear you whisper over my shoulder
that sometimes you wish we were stitched to
each other, and other times you want to sew
your lips shut forever, it feels safer to keep the words in
this is all too familiar
often we are a mutual hallucination
walking down the street holding hands with the shadow of
a person we remember so clearly.
We are a segment of time frozen in a cracked mason jar
and though it will never taste the same when thawed out
we thought out our time capsule carefully
picked only the most succulent ingredients;
the smell of bed sheets after a week of too much sleeping
home cooked breakfasts and any-time-of-day tea,
books of poetry and prose to chew on while we wait for
everything to age long enough for it to be worth something.
There does't always have to be a satisfying ending
some stories hang on cliffs or sit on shelves for decades
and some heart attacks are long predicted before they happen
because waiting semi-patiently is in our blood and so is charisma
our hearts don't always fit inside our chests
or on the shelves we have built for them.