0hgravity

how do I cross the chasm? the distance in your gaze is a dense fog and I am lost in the echoes of my calls to you answer the phone place me against your ear place me against you, close as you dare to be to anyone be to me caught up and out of breath white flag, knotted jaw do not worry, beloved you have nothing to lose but I have you

something in the smirk stunned me, in the way you orchestrate, stretching your long arms across the table to pour another glass of wine, to keep my words pouring more and more - red-tinged spite, processing through the muddled movement. I enter drunkenness in a quiet drip, with little resistance and thoughts melt out of me now, bleed into the pale of your stoicism and sudden artificial laughter, striking air at the wrong time, a sharp, icy blue. when did I become afraid of you? but you are just a child, wounded and lost more afraid of me than I of you; mother always said leave the snake be but fear and calculation for self-preservation are not mutually exclusive - and she rarely could see the poison in the rope; how you keep it like a pet round your neck, your secret exit.

an overdressed writer, wearing the distanced gaze of a sound daydreamer, pulverizes ego in navy blue, inkpen pulling out a tumultuous hue between labored marks, drinks the washed and weathered "always" in a burbon-tinted memory of a sweet dawn smile-- to the madness of purpled knuckles dashing against the alluring silence of a wall, to the candle-battered moths, a toast; amidst a soft, lean song carrying on in the periphery violins bowing, pianos pleading for everything warbled to all dissolve into the pained release of a lone note, and in denouement is written a portrait of overwrought authenticity - a picture of clumsily trying to piece back together.

finding nostalgia in unexpected ways not in the camaraderie of a live show but in watching the singer's mouth move the glint of the drummer's gritted teeth as he plows through a rhythm the sweat gathered, glistened on the upper lip of the guitarist how close were we in the sea of it? arms flailing in shared sonic transportation crying out at the full depth of our lungs till our voices cracked vocal cords rippling impossibly in personal address to world weary bards all that's left are recordings all that's left is sitting on separate couches in separate rooms, in separate head spaces hindsight with a tint of jealousy for what seems lost to time absorbing with utter disbelief our carelessness burning at the luxury of large, loud, gatherings taken so passionately for granted but could we have tucked away the experience any more preciously having known?

aren't you guilty of our galaxy aren't you staring down the mouth of it aren't you sad for me aren't you keeping under wing aren't you tired of the dance aren't you wishing for existence more than this aren't I ?

visiting hours are permanently over. goodbyes by voice mail goodbyes by cassette tape or too late for tangible correspondence; now by way of desperate prayer the gasp then, to heaven when hope collapses, the interrupted hallelujah, and all the sacrilege in that silence. transient transforms into endless quarantine -- isolation by the veil of death.

I hold your hand in a field -- midday, our skirts long and full and cumbersome. we're far from the male gaze. our skin is warm from the heat of the day or maybe our closeness -- my breath melding with your breath in a curious, invisible dance. you look away, cheeks blooming but I know this is a voluntary pause to keep from being overwhelmed and I grasp your chin to turn your face to love, finally, to kiss, finally, to live.

I still think of you sometimes In the way of 3 am conversations In the way of cathartic poetry spoken soft and easy into our secret atmosphere a bundle of comforters between screens I remember the safety of distance and the ache of our emotional proximity the travesty of platonicity, unmatched love I was too lonely even for you desperate at once alluring, attractive and then the mystery unraveled a scenic route to a cul-de-sac. but you wished me such happiness! without the romance of your specific attention and so well-meaning your voice, offered to soothe, only serving to deepen my insomnia yes, I still think of you often which is why I can’t sleep

the hard betrayal by your soft hands exposed me. and the door wouldn’t close, no matter how hard you pushed, how you held against the onslaught of my pandora’s, and how your irises shattered. oh you thought in love and in relationship were the same inebriation? a foolish fantasy on your part, on mine, a cute naivety or an Achilles heel, by any other name -- call it the killing spade the shallow banks fill with coins fallen from your eyes, from your mouth because maybe you can swim so far and fast away from it -- but the river is wide.

red rusts the nails of hate in my chest puncture wounds nested in congealed thoughts that slowly creep into the open space i created to keep me away and safe twisted up in my mouth is everything i want to say but can't fit through the vines i've wrapped around myself

Today prayer is a place that holds your voice until it can speak - palatoglossal arches above rows, the pulpit, and its oration - hymnals pulled from pockets behind pews with a mouth that barely moves - mumbles, a lump in the throat - the voice splitting. As the congregation leaves yesterday's prayers surge the candles in the wind still sounding in their Ss between rows of pews with those who'd still come between sermons - linger in the oratory, take our prayer into their breast. I can see them better than the ghosts of loved ones filling the pit of the entranceway, and I wonder if this is faith dying or coming to life as we come with palms ready, with pockets filled and fumbling with keepsakes to lay on the altar like loose threads unraveled from the heart, our mouths tired.

Do you believe in magic The slight of hand or the trick of an eye Or are you of the enchanted A slight of hand a twist of fate A believer in the supernatural Or are you of the haunted A slight of fate a twist of hand A believer of the superstitious A penny for your thoughts A penny for your soul A pocket full of gold A saucer full of secrets A pail full of penniless souls The wishing well of hidden spells of broken wishes of spoken secrets Can you keep a secret, or can you tell a lie

sometimes i look down at my hands and remember all the love they didn’t bring. how hard it is to grow into being soft. i remember choking out love like a man scorned. i remember hiding its body under the bed. i used to be nothing but scars. i’m not that person anymore. this isn’t a plea for help. i once named myself mars and let my body be a warhammer. now i know that even falling stars are beautiful when they’re burning. i used to think strength meant no lovers, kept everyone out like there was some sort of prize to it. there isn’t. used to think people were just shit to be scraped off my shoes. it takes a lot of growth, to get where i am. people are in everything. it is not a crime to love them. please know that i’ve taken the time to file off the callouses. my hands will never be the softest ones to hold you but i will love you all the same.

my mirror self, where time forked; I have become falsely reflected; this askew universe; the new normal all warped; but my mirror — smiles —

maybe, my advice becomes be your own kind of gravity hold yourself or let yourself as much as you are comfortable fly from branch knowing your branch is ready to receive you shhhh secrets you are your own branch, gravity wings, flight you

the moon is out in all its glowing glory, peeking through tree trunks and chimney sweeps and far across the land. + 2 girls sit on a rooftop with their fingers overlapping and their heads full of the sort of magick intention that young witches have. the stars are out spread across the skies with of outer space + Lady Moon is awake. 2 girls sit on a rooftop with their legs overlapping and their faces filled with moonlight and lust + dusk has come too soon. Lady Moon blesses the deer and the bears and the 2 girls on the rooftop underneath the moon before she wakes the sun. a fierce girl of yellowed hair she rules the night + makes a home + shoots the arrows through the sky without batting an eye. [ + she kisses girls! everyone knows ]. Lady Moon never gets bored of the night or the view or of looking @ midnight women. and she is a beauty which doesn't rival the moon [ but neither do you ]. the elk and the birds cross her path + they do not run she can see herself in wildlife and