"In loneliness, the lonely one eats himself; in a crowd, the many eat him. Now choose."
Friedrich Nietzsche (via aestheticintrovert)
Vignette for _______
Today the earth returns to its position beneath the stars.
The eyepieces align, the sutures burst, light
Pouring through as if from a wound.
The double-exposure of an anniversary:
Film layered on film; today’s light
Shaped by the dark silhouettes of yesterday,
And yesterday’s—pale, effervescent—passing
Through today and taking form.
Today I walk
Through rooms of light, through a room
Of light in which are placed many mirrors.
Your love doubling within me, light unto light.
And you: the image and the mirror,
The light source and the light itself.
Today I wander
Paths yet unknown to you. Still,
You are present always. Not because I carry you
Within me as a talisman, a moth in a jar,
But because there are pieces of me
That live only within you.
You are the sadness of light
Filtering through leaves and finding me
Alone beneath them. My fingers wrap themselves
Around the empty air, the leaves begin unthreading
Themselves from the trees. I press one fist to the hollow
Beneath my breastbone—to hold you there,
Even as I am held within you.
Layers of film, the nascent subjects of the heart swimming
Into being before our eyes. Despite everything.
Shards of shattered mirrors. This,
The pain of light. Shattered and thrown into beauty.
A single joyful image, sharpening into brilliant focus.
Love is the wound that heals itself.
Seeing Through The Shards
A sky the color of cold. Filtered sunlight, pale as memory;
Someone has broken the windows of the world.
The last leaves have already swept the bare sidewalks,
Scattering beneath bus tires and sinking slowly into gutters—
It’s always the bones that last, never the beauty.
A ghost at the window, she tells me.
The sun is a ghost, now.
The clouds coughed across the sky, the inky black characters
Of birds, typewritten, superimposed on their dull underbelly.
The bones last and fracture. We minister to the birds.
The whole system, tall and shuddering within me—
A spaghetti structure, brittle and thin.
A ghost, the birds, the lamp knocked over;
Light spilling onto the floor, the dark-stained air above.
Colors nobody can see anymore.
"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find ways in which you yourself have altered."
Nelson Mandela, A Long Walk to Freedom (via pavorst)
The month of dying dies. Childhood traditions, old arguments. Memory is a precious kind of fear. It feels like winter.
A walk in the cold, freeze-frames of seasons. Fictional silver-screen torment, replacing the victims’ faces with yours. It’s strange to think I’ve almost made it through November.
"Actually, you said Love, for you,
is larger than the usual romantic love. It’s like a religion. It’s
terrifying. No one
will ever want to sleep with you."
Richard Siken (via rauchwolken)
Cranberry tea, woodsmoke, laughter. Legos and pirate lingo. It’s like the years have unwound themselves. Like there aren’t bloodstains under the rug in the closet. This place wasn’t home when I left, but it is when I return.
The trip was too long, our reunion was much too short. A lash cutting stripes across my heart. Home becomes a place you visit. Memories trapped in objects become artifacts of someone else’s life.
Pride goeth before bus delays. Confidence dissolves into anxiety into exhaustion. Sitting on my suitcase, sipping shitty coffee with two creams. Today turning into tomorrow. So it goes.
Falling into bad habits. Caffeine, calories, procrastination. I can’t find much poetry in my own laziness today.
Sweet potatoes, mismatched chairs chairs crammed into the common room. Home means both warmth and irritation. A five-page paper dragged out for hours. I think I’m ready for a break.
Pulling away until evening, cracked open by the alleluia chorus. Hot chocolate and the smash of bodies in a subway car. I’m seeing double: greed and grace, artifice and a lingering trace of magic.
Dead month. Dead hour. Glass crunches beneath my too-steady footsteps. The night’s already gone stale.