Thursday, October 22, 2015

the ruins

It is the story of Icarus, forever some set of wings pressed hard against the hubris, always some sky on fire to abide. We glide above the clouds, the plane the ever-moveable feast confining these guests of heaven. A slow boil of a crowd, these nested destinies and intentions. Fingering bright devices, shifting in our seats. Spilling words and staring at a clock we cannot see. We stumble along, the sky all about us. Every thread awaiting its weave.

This is me, heartbroken on the aisle. This is me, just catching up with her words. Is this really happening, did she truly do it? She broke up with me, tearfully, but at a stride. It all sort of came rollling out. Too crazy, too stuck, too sad. And of course, far far too old. I lean hard on the armrest, skin sweating, breathing shallow. I am buffeted repeatedly by other lives, adrift as they may be.

Another strange extension, another reach into another heart. Alone amidst strangers, my only solace these small sad words. I am thirsty from the circulared air, my lips a constant tongue tested dry. Joints ache and tears swell in barest check, the journey itself suddenly awash with shame and sorrow. I take advantage of the altitude, stringing raw prayers together, seeding the clouds with want and fear. Please, I speak from silent lips. Please don't let her let me go.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015


This is the way we wear our endings, dust in our lungs and on our lips. This is the way the tide abides, sputtering exhaust, carbon vapor in proud plumes rising high above the hubris of our names. A way worn, a dull tread of dreams. A body of meat and manners shed, leaving but works and words. The faulty embellishments of this ache imbued and licensed by the fables we take as truth.

She sleeps many miles and tears away, weeping to the horror of how she must wield her heart. Birth and blood and the list of reasons. Babies and birthdays and ages never known. She knows the burden of just the facts while her wishes threaded tapestries, this last hope that she cannot be. She passes salt and clings to shadows, free of the future he would assure.

The stunned report of thumbs to screen, the moment ever as I wear it. The want and sorrow at my core. My heart as I only know it. Dead limbs and the voice of the wind. Love is always the endurance. Love is yet this oblivion.