I have gone on a trip
I made the plans, bought the tickets
I arrange the accommodations, facilities
No return date, but there is one.
Butterscotch sundae, sticky sweet, stomach ache
On Wednesday, Hump Day, steamrolled day,
forever stained sheets and shirts day,
carried in my bag – one a curse. It’s tears-day.
Missing is a scoop. A hole. An absence.
(Craves absinthe. Craves death.)
Missing isn’t action, but impact.
(Craves symbolism. Fucks regret.)
Carved. I am written with new stories,
more than utterances. These were words
and promises. They held weight but not water.
They were true. They are not true.
Nail clipping, stabbed through sock
ring-stained tub with purple walls
I cannot speak I cannot talk
choked by fervour, crushed by wrath.
Missing is the longing, the yearning
the searching, the dredging, the scouring.
(Oh how many things you’ll find,
but none is that which you seek.)
I am filled with oxymoron,
emphasis on feeling moronic.
Flip flopping and flying and diving
Aerobatic stunts pulled through lusting language.
Don’t stop this pain of endless rhetoric
round my mind and round it goes
a cyclical spiral of memory grows
–how the good times use to flow!
Missing is the angel from a nightmare
(an unsuspecting victim)
Missing is the webs from all the spiders
(and my indecision to call you)
A wondrous passionate feeling of lightness and happiness
that spread itself out between my shoulders across my chest
has been replaced by a pressing, pinching, tightening weight
that comes in a tidal wave with each reminder of loss
Any song that speaks of love shapes and heart beats
threatens me with a pain so deep and cutting
the only way I can survive is to focus on it
wholly and fully and thank the universe for giving
Missing is a rollercoaster ride with an unexpected turn
It’s repeating seven stages seven times and seven times again.
(Some days are so happy that I forget there has ever
been a moment of tragedy in life – how I love that!)
me an opportunity to radiate a strength I hate
remembering I have. For the threshold turns
upon itself and births a hurricane not disguised
gloom in a heart, scary to contain such dark places
I am confused by the simplest situations.
Why the warm bath water feels cold.
Why the best songs process painfully off key
How I am no longer anchored, officially come to form. Air.
Hard. Hot. Husky. Hushed. Voices. Whisper. Push. Shoved.
The game we played, all too often, not enough
Upward, Downward, Cold to Ice. Frozen Tundra
lacking Nice. But oh so beautiful and Vast. Untouched
landscape. Escaping Fast.
Missing you is remembering that I crea-
ted the moments of magic that I loved.
(You fit so perfectly I miss you too
but most of all I miss the me I was.)
So though I long for the return trip,
I don’t have the money nor the armor
nor the capacity to rise to the challenge
just yet, though I drool at the lips
Ripened peach, juicy squeeze
water flows, between your knees
from out your eyes, your poured-out heart
No tact and function, we’ve fucked the art.
Missing is a scoop. A hollow under my breast.
A tiny chip from my front tooth. A sunrise in the west.
Some days I feel I’ll miss you until my last breath.
But I can only miss you until your memory’s death.
I have gone on a trip.
I have made the plans, mapped the route.
I cannot stop moving; feel in constant pursuit.
I keep travelling this hard life if only to find truth.
I miss you.
I miss you.