My love is many things, but a poet is not one of them.
My love do not hear the words in a song, he will find it great all the same.
He can heart the rhythm and the building blocks that I can’t hear over the singer explaining her broken heart.
But he tells me that when a star turn into a supernova it collapses in on itself,
with enough pressure the atom nucleuses will touch and collapse and create a neutron star,
even more pressure on this high density star and theoretically it will form a quark star.
And then, as with everything, in the right conditions, with the right timing;
theoretically this can be put under even more pressure and create a black hole.
He tells me as I stumble my way through understanding how nebulas are made and collapse to form stars,
to explode to form neutron stars,
or white dwarfs who collide and make nebulas,
how this circle of intergalactic life remains constant, and he tells me;
Even black holes evaporate given enough time.
Even white dwarfs who are said to be constant, not having enough element to implode, can collide with another to create nebulas.
And my love is many things, but a poet is not one of them,
so I take what he gives me and I explain myself as a collapsed star,
my heart so dense and heavy from having imploded inwards in a surprisingly quick motion,
Like a rubber band snapping back.
Perhaps I put too much pressure on myself in a critical moment and the sucking feeling in my guts is not a star, but a hole.
But it might evaporate, given enough time.
I take what he says of nuclear explosions and say that two halves of a unstable matter colliding with great force is what ruined a lot of my relationships in the past, but we are not engineered in a capsule just waiting to come together like that.
We are the slow flow in the ever expanding, ever amazing, universe wanting to explain itself.
Hey my sweet onion girl, my white winter fox, my sharp dressed, sharp tongue, sharp wit friend.
I miss you, miss you, miss you from this place in my chest that remembers how you carried me home all those years ago.
From the place where I ran barefoot out in to the rain to you.
I know we talked recently, almost sober, almost close.
Like your hand reaching out over the broken line on the phone,
and I told you how I loved you with my sweet sugar spun heart when I was fifteen and we were easy as breathing.
But I woke up this morning and I think I was home with you for just a second before I opened my eyes,
like the morning smelled of paint and ink and your sleeping shape.
Back when summers were spent with me curled up against you, nose in ear, weird growling dreams.
And then you disappeared.
I think you were my scribe and I was the story trying to tell itself,
I’m the head in the clouds and you’re leather-bound, fingers dug into earth, feet planted on a ship.
Come find me in this red bricked world, there are foxes here but they don’t howl as you do, there are men here with honeyed skin, sticky enough that it might make you linger.
Ah, I am selfish, I can’t keep you, I can’t keep you.
Cherry mouthed teenager or freckly cheeked adult alike, you belong with cobble stones and I belong with bricks.
But I believe in loves that has nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with your laughter, glasses of whiskey, and how even after years when I fly to greet the mountains, you smell like home.
You tell me I’ll be yours with the same conviction in your voice as someone who says it’s gonna rain.
When I ask how you can be so certain you just smile and say I feel it in my bones,
you say you get the feel for these things after time.
And I guess it’s flattering to be someones ache,
but it’s been weeks and I’m sat here without you and it’s all clear skies as far as the eye can see.
I have a friend who lives in a tower in a city where the mountain traps the rain between them like wild things trap prey.
He hides his heart in whiskey bottles and serves it up to anyone who makes the pilgrimage to hear him speak,
his words of pleasure and the absurd have filled room and halls and echo long after he leaves;
and every bit of this city rumbles when he laughs.
Outside of words, he lives in an altar of consumerism and his walls are filled with chantings in the night, prayers of Rumi and the low buzzing of devices.
He collect us like we are stray cats and dysfunctional dolls, to put on shelves and his desks and his sofa.
With soothing words and sly smiles he tells us to stop acting so small for we are the universe in ecstatic motion.
And although the words belong to someone else, his hands on the back of us as we try to go on is all him.
I have a friend who lives in a tower, in a city where rain washes everything clean too often for my taste.
But he has a suit for every occasion and a smile for every broken heart except his own.
And we walk the streets to his house like disciples to a place of prayer.
½ of a duvet tucked between your knees.
A pinch of rocking back and forth.
Mix until soothed, then put aside.
1 Memory of things left unfinished.
2 broken promises you have no excuse for.
1 thing you forgot to do.
Gently fold together and reduce until nothing left.
1 arm around a waist.
1 pillow full of curls.
2 breaths in different tempo.
1 front curled up against
Add kisses to the back of the neck until no bitterness remains.
Bring together with fingertips until mixture hums in sleepy contentment, add dreams to taste.
Pour onto mattress of suitable size, leave for 6 – 10 hours in room temperature until it rises.
If you make this recipe with alcohol add units until body is soft and pliant,
pour body onto mattress of choice.
Leave until agitations builds, then add water and sunshine.
I am not a beacon to draw you in nor a torch for you to bear.
I am not a fortress and men should not waltz up to my door expecting a drawbridge.
(And should I be anything resembling such you should know my moat is wide and filled to the brim.)
I am not made for your consumption,
nor am I made of smiles for you on a friday night at two am while your eyes are scanning the room for something to make you feel alive.
I wont be your amusement, your game or yours to string along like a marionette coming alive under your fingertips.
This life wasn’t made for you and neither was I.
So stop fucking shouting at me from your stupid cars you fucking assholes.
I want you like a gun wants to be cocked and fired,
all high strung, tense, capable of horrible things in the wrong hands.
I want you like the water wants to lick the bricks of the city,
waves after waves of endless destruction no one expects you to endure.
But I can be soft, I can be lapping waves over legs and backs, I can be gentle rain.
Just not for you.
We weren’t made for tuesday afternoons and hands twined together in a way that doesn’t hurt,
arms pinned down, bruises in the shapes of fingers and my voice roaring.
And I want you like fire wants wood,
I’ll run through the underbrush of you and run everything alive out of you.
I’ll ruin everything, and you’ll start it all and laugh as I devour us both.