Live poetry

  1. Here comes the sun again to shower earth and I in its richness. I feel it's warmth on my cheek. It's lingering, irradiated, energy chipping away into my skin. Into my eyes, though I avoid it's gaze directly. Delving into my frozen features. Features of metal. Cold stone. Softening them for a second.
  2. I'm exhausted. And my exhaustion grins a hostile grin. It knows what I compare the sunlight to. It knows how much richer I find the moonlight. Starlight being so especially soft. The air is sweeter at night. The sounds are more rhythmic and the people more fascinating.
  3. I wonder when she thinks of me. I wonder if she dreams. I wonder if she ever looks longingly at my name and wonders. Holds a thought in her head for just a moment before pushing it away. I wonder if she ever feels me the way she used to. Can't blame her if she wouldn't. No one should have to feel this.
  4. I wonder if we're ever up at the same time of the night thinking about each other. I wonder if she looks me up from time to time. I wonder if she despises me. I wonder if she's forgotten me yet. I wonder if she's written me off. I wonder if she's broken. I wonder if she's healed. I wonder if her friends know.
  5. I wonder if she misses me. I wonder if she feels the dreadful ache. Fills up with terror and chuckles it away and stares off. Like I do. I wonder if she writes it off. I wonder if she plays music on repeat. Wastes time out of indecision and makes plans she can't complete. I wonder what it's building to.
  6. I wonder how I'll come out of it all. Besides enraged and bitter and dramatic. And calm and compassionate and warmer and farther away.
  7. The moon sings no praises and I am left to hum alone. Where has the kindness gone? My hopefulness along with it. Left to but a bare shag carpet in a loft with little air and a view of a burning youth. A smoldering naivety not far behind it. My hope is wrinkled and warped. It is ancient as the breathe of the sun.
  8. We both lick our teeth in anticipation and nothing more erupts but complacent habit in the wake of all this inner terrorism. This wretched disease of the heart. I am not numb. I am feeling it all at once. Invisible voices wail between the walls and my face appears along the window sill. Looking in at this mess of a present. This dilapidation.
  9. If I am to have compassion it must be for myself. I must be my own fast friend. I must love her from the distance. I must taste everything that was her within the wonderful island of sleep. Hear only the rolling cadence of her song floating epically across the seas of isolation.
  10. Life has brought me this gift of love. Love breaching both of our fears. Abounding across distances of separateness and tearing through walls of misery. To my heart of hearts. Coloring my grief something warmer.
  11. The sun looks on on envy at my memory. Holding her bright eyes to the sticking point. Shining from within onto all the earth and I.