the weight of pale things

as the fading light of evening slinks herself in through my open window, so much lingers and blooms in my heart, my ribs are plush with somber gravity. though whatever this is inside of me does not wish to make itself known in words. not just yet.

a glass of wine.  a cigarette.  i run my fingers smooth across Baudelaire. Dickinson. Nin.  gray dust and centuries suspended in the cooling air.

silence.  not for those in faint condition.

i’m thinking of you as i let go of myself and wonder how long it takes to forget the one who sewed you back together after countless falls. i was torn. that is the only way i know how to tell you i was sorry, that i am sorry. that i was so loathe with greed my eyes saw only your hunger, my body sang only for your resonant ache.

and so the melon sky fades into purple with barely a whisper through the neighborhood.  echoes of bottles, life, static and sadness.

empty sheets and my linen hands still resemble the shape of you.

little lights are coming on all across the globe. and i am quietly remembering a time when i was young and beautiful, and angst ridden and wretched full of poetry but without the words to heal.