black cards

I no longer hear
from your friends,
all flat
in black and gray.
I've made peace
with their absence,
but not with yours.
maybe one day
we can talk about it.
until then, outlines and stains,
shadows of our potential chats,
clump in the bottom
of my tea cup.
fools suck it up,
but you sucked it up.
maybe hiding was a bad idea.
you believe in heaven,
so that is where
I will find you.

blue light

 that soft blue light

has a way of creeping

      where it shouldn't.

and the click and punch

     of the typewriter

has a way of hypnotizing

when it shouldn't.

it's almost as if 

  you are speaking to me

from the next room,

but you are not here.

      it's almost as if

the blue light knows

whom to summon,

whom to follow 

       when inspiration calls.

uneven spaces, blue 

in the cracks, 

try to ease my hand,

ease my worry, 

  but no softness 

has enough force

to hit the keys,

and I am left with

your whispers,

your shadows

        where they shouldn't

appear.

Unforgiving

the shape of grief?
there is no shape.
there is no road,
only interruptions
of quicksand.
there is no destination
only scattered paths
leading nowhere.
the shape of grief?
it's sand in the lungs.
it's sand in the eyes.
it takes the shape
of any open space,
unforgiving.

Take

it's the decay
that finds me
and all of my
soft places--
a bruised fruit
on the ground,
only enjoyed
by those
whose only purpose
is to take.

Indebted

I don't wish I were dead
even when I feel buried alive,
small rocks of grief in my mouth.
I don't wish I were dead.
I can't remember the last time I was awake,
a comb scratching the surface of my head,
wrestling tangles and knots so that
I can look OK, so that I can look
presentable when someone confides in me
only to forget to ask if I'm alright.
But no, I don't wish I were dead.
Just another person's wallet
would be emptied, then;
as if I never borrow.
As if I always borrow,
feathers for blood,
an endless well that goes
all the way down but fails to echo.
I don't wish I were dead,
but I keep having dreams
about the dead, bubbling in my ear,
fresh water myths rushing
so much I cannot hear my thoughts.
The dreams are always about it being a farce,
a prank, that she is gone.
"Who told you that?" She'd explain, exasperated,
and I would wake up, thinking I'd been lied to,
a penny bouncing off the wall of the deepest well.
I can't remember the last time I was awake,
floating in the water, feathers shiny,
emerging from a bloody wound.
When the light hits the back of her eyes
she'll know that she has been found.
Why would I ever wish I were dead
even when the mind is a trap?