There is pain
at the center of my chest
it reaches for cold,
anything to soothe the fire
you had no intention of lighting.
Tell me,
what is the antidote
to loneliness?
To rejection?
You do not reach out.
It hurts more than if
you’d simply write
to tell me
I am not the one for you.
I am burning, burning,
don’t you see?
Moments and meaning and time
swirling around,
wasted.
Wasted on
thinking of a love
that never began
or lasted
long enough
for it to burn.
Tag: spilled writing
Language Barrier
In Portuguese
you describe
the point in your life
when you decided
to free yourself
from ties and commitment,
accountability.
In English
you said,
“Yes, I’m open.”
In your language,
in your truth,
you come to terms
with your spirit,
split in two
half existing elsewhere
the other seeking joy, here.
A vagabond has no home.
Potentially aimless,
leaving ruin in some places.
Excitement in others.
A vagabond cannot hold
what I’m asking to be held.
In your language, you proclaim,
“Eu ainda estou levando esta vida.”
Vagabundeando.
I reach for you in my own language.
Your answer is a mixture of
words I do not understand.
"Come here,"
I want to say.
Make a home in my chest,
have adventures with me.
You choose something else,
a different life.
A different person.
You choose everything but me.
I am no place for a vagabond.
I may be searching
but this heart has roots.
Dreamworld
The other night,
I found you in a dream.
You were tender and kind
and offered momentary affection.
Even in this dreamworld
you left.
I awoke
feeling emptied of
the intense intimacy
you could provide
and chose
to take
away.
Ghosts
I won’t convince you either way.
You decided this
before you met me.
I picture
the ghosts
that may reside in your heart,
ones you haven’t made peace with.
I hope you find enough ground
to feel safe letting another in.
It seems that
in keeping people at a distance
they leave in the end.
A self-fulfilling prophecy.
Perhaps you said those things
to be kind.
Or maybe they were your truth.
At any rate,
I wish your
heart
had room for me.
I’m no exorcist.
My light
shines too bright sometimes
in dark corners.
I can’t dim it.
Not even for you.
After I left your place,
I went to the water.
I’m not ready to
walk with this,
knowing our brief
encounters are over.
I sit in the heaviness of it,
equally as freeing for me,
as I know we negotiated
the best we could.
At the water I release
ghosts of my own.
I see them for what they are.
Some hope goes with them.
I see you with clear eyes.
Kind and gentle.
Perhaps lost in your own head.
Unsure, tempted and fearful.
I can’t pull out of you
words I’d like to hear.
I can’t hope you’ll become
something you are not.
Despite the release,
I'd like to believe
you won’t become
yet another ghost
my words try their best
to understand.
The Restless Crescent 