the tide comes,
hands
o u t s t r e t c h e d,
grabbing.
a ship has sailed off into the night: a maiden voyage of a ghost cruise, all passengers lost at sea.
there are days when you wake up
fully alive, just racing
out of bed to greet the dawn.
and there are days
when the afternoon sun
is stale in the sky
as you are dragged out
from under the covers
screaming.
“i’m dying, can’t you see that?”
there are days when you wake up,
and days when waking up
is just a dream.
we could be the only
people in a room
and i would still suffocate
from claustrophobia.
we both know how the asymmetry of our hands means we’ll never fit together like a puzzle. your winter gloves fall down in the snow as you try to accommodate the uneven spaces my fingers provide. i’m sorry for the cold, with and without me.
a little girl in a white dress cries,
fingers clenched around
nonexistent ribbons
of a helium balloon.
the carnival erupts around her
- dousing her in the ashes
of laughter and pink cotton candy.
it’s morning.
we’re waiting for the sun
to set in St. Petersburg
so it can rise here.
we’re only waiting for an instant.
so many people say
they’ve seen a sunrise,
but it happens so fast.
blink and you’ve missed it.
today your heart gave out,
and so did mine.
a chain reaction, if you will.
the rhythms going and going
and then stopping in tandem.
in caverns we searched for days
for the light you missed
when your flame went out.
i’m sure they can still hear us
echoing down the tunnels, lost.
clumsy hands flip the switch.
you’re a little too fast
and a little too sure of yourself,
but that’s never stopped you
before.
when sadness poured from the sky,
umbrellas weren’t enough
to keep my eyes dry
and my heart warm inside.
When children themselves are children, the world seems so large that they cannot help but always find themselves looking up. In all of their adventures they discover that being below a normal eye-level makes the small things big and the big things even bigger. From this, a vivid imagination flourishes.
there’s a heaviness
that your eyes convey,
all dressed up in
warm woollen blankets:
the shrouds of the dead
and those who are dying.
