we are two pieces of furniture. i am an ottoman. there are feet on my head, dirty shoes. they are heavy. push us together. you have four legs, all squared. low profile, no back. minimalist. you are barely there. barely anything. still expensive. we don’t match. i belong somewhere else, some place full of clutter i can hide in. you are too good looking for that. a center piece. show-home style. push us together. we touch, a little reluctantly.
Mapping a World Without You [Poem]
I trace a house to another with
roaring rivers that are capable
of swallowing arks whole.
I rearrange the skies so that
there is no eternal chase;
the sun and moon dangle
like dim light bulbs flickering
on, off, on, off.
Half the world’s melted
the other, a desert.
All I have are streets left
unnamed; clocks that
tell secrets other than time;
the clouds, grey
and heavy; and
not quite blooming
not quite wilting:
i am a willow in a forest of redwood
i’d have roots that claw their way upwards instead, out of the earth, if i were a tree.
because this kind of feeling needs the sun on its face.
and it’s so strong, it starts to feel so right.
but this feeling’s so wrong, it’s beginning to feel so natural after all.
i have woodpeckers instead of butterflies in my stomach and
i named a hurricane after you, but turns out, there’s nothing sadder than being the only house left standing among piles of debris.
i’ve always thought there was something beautiful about destruction, and destruction has always left me feeling beautiful.
i mean, i’ve been hearing sirens in the distance all my life. and i’ve got more missed calls than the police station’s gotten rung in the past couple of years.
but i realise there’s no one who could really fall in love more with the sun than a wilting rose.
and more than anything, this makes me feel like a rose that’d already wilted.