in darkened rooms for the time-worn lovers,
where passion left and dust finds deeper cracks,
i found my weakness in decayed others,
and slept in unresolved corroded tracks.
before time leaves and casts its silken lines,
and gives to fate the chance so undeserved,
i beg and pray, a silent plea for time,
so time, she knows, she leaves woe well preserved.
with patience comes the sparrow’s florid song,
in unkempt spirits, essence now emits
a stranger light, a vision welcomed long,
the grey fell short, relaxed in its remiss.
what hourglass took, i reclaimed intact,
and sand i stole: am i still bound to pacts?
I’ve transcended time. I’ve gone into space. I’m burnt breakfast and over-brewed tea that you drink just because it was made just for you. I’m the bacon burnt and smoking up the house, just the way you like it. I’m the flour in someone’s hair from a failed attempt at baking your favorite cake, and you don’t dare brush me away. I’m the sour morning breath that used to bother you, but you stopped caring about just like you stopped caring about getting out of your shared bed this morning. I “end” in divorce half the time. Maybe less than half, because I’m not always there to begin with. A mischievous devil in makeup and not-much clothing likes to put on a costume of me and parade around in my shoes.
I’m the way you touch them like glass or fine china. I’m the catch of fingertips when the planes of your body change suddenly at the edges, and the way you’re surprised every time it happens. I’m the way that being near each other in public still seems too private to look at. I’m the way you turn your head into the pillow and the lingering scent of their shampoo mixed with yours on the cotton of the pillowcase. I’m how you always sleep on the one side of the bed. I’m restless sleep because there’s too much space in the bed since they’ve gone out of town.
I’m how you leave on a plane and there’s one thing on your mind. I’m how, from the moment you step off, you wish you could just be back home. I’m how you obsessively take pictures of everything just to flood their email when you get back to your hotel. I’m how much you’d rather drink their burnt coffee than the burnt coffee from the cafe with an unpronounceable name two blocks away from your hotel. I’m the way you cheated on them with a love for a charming new city, and the way you were still anxious to fly home even though you’re in your favorite city on earth. I’m the “e” that’s scribbled onto the “welcome home” poster with a tube of your lipstick because it was too early for them to function properly but they still went and met you at the airport anyway. I am how, when you get home, the first thing you do is put your toothbrush right back next to theirs.
I’m the constant going away and coming home. I’m the symbiosis. I’m the star around which people orbit. I’m the reason that sunrises the colour of grapefruit don’t bother you like they used to. I’m the give and take, the revolution of the planet Earth.
I am in the little moments, like when they wake up to trace the bow of your lips and you’re never aware of the little tender touch. I’m in that little moment when you’re on the cliff edge between wakefulness and sleep and you press a kiss to the curve of their shoulder, and then just like that you’re asleep. I’m tangled in the sheets by your four feet every morning.
I’m the key that opened your locks, and the force that broke theirs open. I’m each new day and why each one means more than it did before. I am the “only if you want it to be” to the question of “is it worth it?” I am fair; I am war. I am not all you need, but I make all the moments in between worth it. I die when the last of us is gone, but I only die among us. I live imprinted on relics. I weave into words printed on pages of books. I hang in the air long after you and everyone else is gone, because I am not any of you. I am what was between you, what you created and gave to the world.
I make it hard for them to breathe. I make your insides twinge with something warm and fuzzy, something familiar. I make their heart stop and stutter, and you restart it again. I lay underneath the curious first touches with shaky hands. I’m the flit of butterflies in your stomach even after the shaking hands have long since gone.
You are always a better you with me.
he is frost,
and frost again
nothing i that know is
nothing he feels