Where’s my breath?

Say no more words.

Retreat!

Poetry turns to work

Work turns to lists.

Lists.

Not so bad.

Depending on the sort.

I go for a run to clear my head.

The steep hills of the city trail leave me feeling alive–the skyline of mountains a familiar refuge.

My blood pulses through my limbs, pushing me to a discomfort I fully embrace.

The physical challenge is the only thing that quiets the voices in my head holding tight to frustration and confusion.

I crave the sweet sense of clarity that replaces the unknown.

The run works to ground me–forcing me to connect to my breath. It is all that is real.

At the close of fall, the cold and darkness hint towards the coming winter. There is death in winter. A final dying away of all that was.

I wonder if my final breath will take place during a winter?

At the close of fall, I go for a run and hope I will survive one more winter.

All the words I can’t say.

The temptation to respond to the blinking cursor reminds me to only write to the ghost of you that lives on my paper.

The public eye shows me you are well, so my concerns are merely vain attempts to be your friend.

I’m doing well in most things

I am loved.

I love.

I wake up–

And I can move.

My dearest treasures are safe,

But you are not my friend and I grieve your loss.

If it had been been me, I’d have made you crazy.

I’d sit in front of fires and cry my guts out for those I had loved and fucked up. Those who have gotten close, but I’ve managed to toss by the way side, and somehow I still convince myself it was them.

I saved you from that.

I didn’t kiss you, and you didn’t kiss me. We rode three hours home though, and we talked. But I was dreaming unrealistic hope when I brought you muffins and thought you’d be excited to see me again.

But you tell me I’m the one who messed it all up.

Like the night I asked you to your second concert, but you backed out last minute and sent me a picture of the wings to a plane as you flew across the world.

But I really did mess it all up. I honestly did my part. Playing the game of check mate.

And now I’m a plastic piece of trash in the delete bin. Fuck me, trash bin, begin again, 100% sin…

But, count your blessings.

Same kind of blue.
My dear descending Dad.
I am You. You are Me.

As you reach to throw
My mind is with the birds-
Motion of the waves-
My little boy—

I am behind the camera.
Or somewhere behind my wall.

I had a good time seeing you.
It’s always nice to remember our life.

As I go to leave
Standing in your driveway
We got to talking about God.

And there we were again,
Hand in hand in our hearts.

The Unconditional—
The Love we know within Us All
Radiating the almighty Light.

None can deny.

Same kind of Blue
My dear ascending Jude,
You are me. I am You.

I don’t know how to get through the dark clouds of autumn that are filled with rain. They drag me into the numbness I use to shut down all the pain of you. The pain coming from the story you told that I now know was a lie.

I repeat my mantra over and over again-You were a lie. You were a lie. A figment of my imagination. A mirage in the desert.

I can live my whole life with you tucked away in the deepest drawer of my heart because what I believe of you isn’t real.

Upon my cat’s ears…
I tell her all my feelings.
I tell her I miss you.
I tell her I lost a best friend.
I tell her my heart is still aching.
I tell her to go to bed.

She paces back and forth for a moment, and then settles on a blanket beside me.

I tell my cat to find you.
She’s the only one that hears.

The notes and chords that you strummed across my heart strings have turned to flesh-eating arrows. The punctures go so deep that my blood slowly drips down my side. Welcome to my slow death.

The grenade you hold is a lie. There is no promise of a swift end when you pull the pin. You are a hunter whose aim only causes suffering. Luring me to your circle, and leaving me to die.

There is no sweet ecstasy of release.

It’s the night time that brings the grief.

I have to acknowledge that you are dead.
I’ve buried you. Put the wreath on the casket. Lowered you into the dirt. Watched the fresh red roses at your grave turn into dried up petals.

Yet sadly, you’re in the same town as me. Walking.
Breathing.

It’s the night time that brings the grief.