we stared down at the
shattered-glass surface of the lake
and watched spiders skate across
the water's crest.
the poppies dressing the horizon
danced in the desperation and
filtered hope that one day
the sky would be as
close as it seemed -
the willows wept
and bent and wanted to
say "i love you" but did
not know how -
(instead, they thought
they would hold their words,
and stray with the end of the
day.)
i was like the willows, that day.
i bent under thousands of years
and i felt heavy and the weight
of my need to say their unsaid
words flooded my insides
and threatened to evade the shadowy
solace o
conventional conditions. by miss-momentum, literature
Literature
conventional conditions.
fingerprints on glass remind me of you:
snow on brick sidewalks, invisible ice on
slick winter pavement, tar black from the shadow
of the always-sunset, crisping paint and
inkwell navy footprints tracing through -
tracing you through autumnal episodes of
channelling frustration with your calloused hands
and you, you are still paused on the brink of never and
always and I,
I am still waiting, too.
you were never enough. you were never
more than hands clasped and fingers laced
and fingers laced through wisps of hair
and holding on with ribbons frayed.
you were afraid. you are afraid.
you are forever words on ocean shores and
wo