ruins

where our old ruins still stand
there is a brick wall, crumbly and engulfed
in spiny weeds, and little bursts of dandelions
that crept up slowly from neighbouring fields.

I run my fingers against
the dusty brick, these tips of white flesh
vibrating against the grainy surface;
I wonder whether other hands
have passed here, too.

If they have, did they feel the
stiff red sand beneath their calloused skin?
or did they simply stroll past these ruins,
hands hanging guiltily in their pockets.

It seems a little of a travesty
when they walk by and do not extend
their hands towards these stone walls,
do not run their fingers over
its earthy surface.

How much they miss
of its sun-tanned brownness, the crisp
crumbs of disembodied days, the warm
mortar grilled beneath the rays of the closest star.

I want to lie next to these ruins,
on this bed of weeds and dust and age.
And fall asleep wheezing and following the
indentations and cracks of our wall
with the tip of my index finger.

I want the summer days to fill my
lungs with the air of allergy, to constrict
my breathing. Perhaps then, I can take rest
near you and press my palms against
your brick chest while my heart gets its fill.

we make our road by walking

we have parted ways it seems,
and begun to make individual trails in the snow.
I can’t be sure when it happened exactly,
which day, at what hour we drifted.

For a while, I didn’t notice you were gone,
I marched along oblivious to the fact.
But darkness set in, and the voice
that made this road with me was silent.

our history reads that
we made our road by walking it, hand in hand,
bravely paving its untamed woods
and enjoying an unruly beauty.

we had no concern besides making a road
where there was none. and we succeeded
in a sort of quiet way,
in a way we never thought we could.

the unknown stretched before us, but we
traversed the earth in boldness and
vociferous tones of enjoyment. the road
was ours to take.

and then you were gone in the night,
taking your footprints and warm tones with you.
so I stopped in my tracks, and for a while
ceased to make our road or any road at all.

I still cannot make this road go forward any longer
despite my concerted efforts
it travels in directions towards anarchy and
disbelief.

the road I now make
loops around itself, and I almost believe
am progressing. But as the sun sets,
I am suddenly back here,
where two pairs of footprints became one.

Fuel

We have those difficult days, the days when life is too complex, too overbearing, too tiresome. And we crawl into our beds hoping that we may solve these burdensome moments through heavy sleep; perhaps we can numb away the sharp edges of living. And then dreams come and colour our unconsciousness with bright or dreary thoughts. They are mostly dreary these days, filled with inconceivable events involving losing love, and even then with those sacrifices, not being forgiven in the wake of pain.

Even the nights offer no solace to this soul. I wake with more worries, more slow aches in the pit of my belly. The mornings are early and cold, slow and disappointing. And after those dreams, there is little fuel left in me to get up and get on with life.

so inconvenient

I am exhausted
from inhaling the accumulating dust
of weathered bones
that we hide
in dark and concealed places.

My exhaustion makes it difficult
to be vociferous, or
to be free from destructive want,
makes it inconvenient
for my heart to beat quite as it
did before.

I am not sure where
my exhaustion leads; whether
there is recovery and lighted endings,
or only ordinary days and nights
filled with echoes in the tunnel
leading home.

her hands

I am watching the same moon
that greets your eyes
on dimly lit streets

the haze around it
slowly clearing
under our gazes

I want to reach up
and feel its blurred surface
under my index

like I did the night of the eclipse
when the orange tinted moon
leaked colour onto my fingertips

I want to come home
and smell the sweet pages
of peace and poetry

but the crescent becomes fuller
as the days pass
and the cold air solidifies reality

I don’t understand
what is happening to me
because

I am mature dignified
collected but bruised
alone and aching

all at once

I had nothing to write to you,
looking at this blank sheet under my pen
wondering how I could imagine words
that would make it easier
to say goodbye.

I still have little. The few words
I can bear to string together are
meaningless and fragmented,
but I’m still doing the only thing I can,
breathing here
still growing
still waking up with the sunrise
wanting more, and
there are still weeds in the backyard
that need to be uprooted.

I want to believe in a better world,
I want to know I can keep breathing
with empty hands
and an unplanned loneliness.

saying goodbye is. It just is
nothing, but all there is;
the summary of
a world where nothing lasts
beyond a brief flickering flame in the night.

I still want to tell you that saying goodbye
is also saying hello
to something new for you and I,
to a greater hope
for God’s Mercy. I know He is more than
a fitful flame,
more than my restless sleep,
more than this grieving heart.

I still pray closing my eyes,
remembering
days of simplicity where we believed,
believed in such greatness
as there ever was.

I will remain, wanting to change
this world before it changes me.
I want a struggle
to make it
so that others can feel greatness, too.
I will work
these empty hands
to the bone, for more
than this.

And if I stop working, stop wishing for
unparalleled relief,
it will be because
I have stopped breathing.

Go with God.