Thursday, September 10, 2015

the story

this is how the story goes, 
i see three lines from a poem spray-painted on the street, 
go home and realize that you had bought me the book
two years before. 
there is an inscription, it is more relevant now. 

this is how the story goes, 

two people enter a city but never 
exit, they twist together like wet sweaters in the wash, 
they become two different pieces of one thing and you
stop wearing one without the other.

this is how the story goes, 

i cut snowflakes into the ship's sail, i make paper dolls out of the only map. 
we get lost, i don't put any of my messages into a bottle this time,
i don't know if i should be found.

this is how the story goes, 

lowered myself into a well because the darkness
felt familiar, had to crawl back out. 
there is so much dirt under my fingernails, 
i am not sure that you would recognize my hands anymore. 
i learn to fear love like snapping jaws, this wasn't supposed to bleed so much,
i develop neuroses over your absence like keloid scars.

this is how the story goes, 

i can't stop putting my ear to your front door, hoping for 
the silence.

this is how the story goes,

i don't know how to catch up, i am scared to read the books 
on my shelf, the inscriptions you left are land mines, 
scared they won't come true,
scared they will.


Cheryl said...

"I make paper dolls out of the only map" - I don't know why, but that rang in my bones like a gong. The beauty of it. The futility. The making something impractical and flimsy out of something ordered and logical. Sometimes it feels like this is what I do with life - cut shapes from it just to see the beauty in something I have made.

Olia said...

This poem is so good, all of your writing is, there's something really unique and touching about it. When I read this one I felt I could hear a voice reading it aloud, in a dark room.

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