last night,
the house trembled,
like it loved the violence of being shaken-
a victim of well drinks and slippery fingers
the floor, dressed in a flush carpet
laid cramped with splattered socks
soft whispers
and stained tshirts-
you woke inside of it
head spinning, chest pressed
with her pouring into you ;
the screeching scream of virgin tea,
your lips running wild with the taste of cologne and perfume,
and a single strand of hair sprawled across your tongue.
tomorrow you will wake bare skinned
tight fisted
and alone
but with the thought of her and yesterday
still stuck in the darkest corners
of where you’ve been.
i could write a book titled “broken”
filled with towering poems
about you and i
and too comfortable dreams
but when i wandered moth-like
towards the bright lights
of the charged city
you pulled me out
like a 2AM phone call
and tonight
i can still hear you whisper
don’t wake the morning
let it rest
before we break again.
"Poetry allows us to hold many related tangential notions in very close orbit around each other at the same time. The “unsayable” thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it."
— Rebecca Lindbergh (via thebronzemedal)
The scientists say
we were stars
way back when
before these skins, bones
and worries weighed us down
we were up there.
