The Drawbridge

On either side of a memory,
I wait
until the drawbridge closes
and the gap is filled--
without pleasantries,
without remorse,
just a pure, seamless destination
in front and behind--
from one town to the next,
and we can travel freely.
Until that bridge
serves its purpose,
I'll wait.
Between black and white,
between life and death,
I'll wait.

Pretending

the light isn't coming back on--

too much trust for something

with invisible wires.

too much honesty for something

that pretends 

to be the sun.

I don't think I'm brave.

before your eyes knew me,

you thought I was--

skating into each tiny dream

on ice as black as fear...

when the light burnt out

I went to bed and

never got up

because it never came back.

a slight glimmer came, once,

a trick from my window--

or from my eye.

optic nerves, invisible wires tied so gently,

mapped by God and science...

too much trust for something

that is not guaranteed.

before your eyes knew me,

I philosophized.

I evangelized.

but then the ice cracked beneath my feet,

and I plunged

with you above me, 

so far away,

light-years away

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.