Stealing Summer's Breath

“an answer means an end, and I don’t like asking questions I don’t want the answers to”

She held my hand

in hers like raindrops

in a tired cup

that catches the strays

from the leaky roof.

I latched on like the

green to a leef in the

cruelest heat of a summer

that never began.

Resting my hands

on the hips of a new life,

swinging away the worried

days I’d once spent in

a trance of discontent,

shuffling along the dusty

floors that for too long

had seen me still.

I chase the tail of

success and the rhythm

of its body;

learning the dance of

death ‘round the pit

Past the wisps of wisdom

and the whispers or winter,

the whistle of winds that

carry reckless thoughts away

.

Beyond the bridges to nowhere,

the burning remains,

the boredom that settles

from bleeding skies

.

I hear the trill of your tongue

dug comfortably into your cheek,

the pulse of your lips smacking

like waves against the face of the beach.

.

Beyond all that stands between

a bit of me and the whole of you,

I still hear the owl in your throat

hooting away the midnight fog

that beckons my misery.

I still feel the flutter of your wings

and the flip of your hair in the

suburban sun that

reaches past the concrete

keeping me away.

Oh, the stress sets in.

Life knows what it wants of me,

I just don’t know what I’ll take as royalties.

I’ve replaced the starry nights

with twinkling apartment lights,

the wind whisking away the 

dead leaves with cars passing

and dragging loose ends down the street.

I’ve traded all I’ve known about

sleeplessness, staring

at an empty ceiling waiting

for a pattern to form between asbestos dots,

for the blare of sirens and the

dull red sheen of lights reflecting 

from the clouds.

Sleep rests between

two temples

warring with war drums

beaten by matchstick mallets.

Sleep rests between

rounded castle walls

carved by the waves of dread.

Sleep rests between

a wrinkled mop head of 

endless regrets, pink with pettiness.

Sleep rests

somewhere in this head,

but I do not.

The white leather 

of shoes freshly fallen into

has been creased and pressed

into a wrinkled mess 

by the concrete slabs of gritty avenues.

The bubble beneath the heel

and the ankle binding straps

have burst and split,

the sole torn on an

exposed crack.

Though the feet that landed

between a lace lock

and a logo were

eager to step foot into the future,

the shoe could not fit

between a dream and a moment.

Long ago I was given

a gift of sadness.

Eternal, endless,

and undying.

Little did I know

this gift was only

to be passed on

through my age

in wisdom and love.

My head rang

like an unhinged payphone,

your name shouted down

the alleys and crooks.

I asked the streets to

take me in,

to shelter me between

a free space in cobbles

or beneath a mildewed brick,

but I was left out to dry

in the shade of a scraped sky.

The claw marks running

down the clouds billowed 

smog and bled sunlight

unto the monotony;

the rivers of yellow stones

and limousines percolating through.

I was overwhelmed by the sight

of nature so delicately groomed.

But my head still rang

and my mind still ran from 

temple to temple,

trying to find a church or two between.

Your name, called down

from north to south,

runs by its side.

Self worth is based solely upon the comparison between who you see and who you’d rather see. The closer your body is to filling to spaces between the lines drawn on the mirror, the wider the smile.

So what happens when your body exceeds the lines drawn?

My life has been:

a few staggered breaths

and heavy footsteps

down lonely mountain passes.

A single boat pushed by

a lowly wake across an

endless lake.

A whispered kiss on the

neck of fate salivating

as it exhales my name.

A trickle of dew down

the spines of grass jutting

from a living man’s grave.

But my life is soon to be

much more than I have

ever dreamed or planned

to see, much more than

an ordered petty little 

list (like this).

My life is soon to be

a collection of stories to

tell the kids, a labeled

organized wish list of

all the things I thought

I wouldn’t miss.

My life is soon to slow to

a winded sprint.

And I sense this change

not by the air that passes

my cheeks or the caked saliva

at the corners of lips,

but by the loss of the

fear that I may trip.

I grow old,

as I do vain.

I worry not for the flakes of skin,

nor the wasted words,

but the breaths I’ll lose between.

Steady now, 

settle the heart.

The air is too swift to steal

or share, so

I’ll fill my lungs as best I can.

Steady now,

the air leaks from the

spaces between my fingers

and the continental drift

between my ribs.

Steady now,

I’ll grow old just thinking this way.

I start college next week.

What happened to cartoons and candy?

As summer’s slumber

runs out of sun to fuel

its ease, I find myself

reeling in light of the

soon coming autumn breeze.

The brisk bite of colored leaves

begging to climb my

spine back up their branches

to nestle themselves 

between the teeth of trees,

it beckons me.

But I dare not leave this

brief sleep, 

the momentary rest 

before the world dies

and starts again.

Before I break your fall with

a sudden shuffle of feet

or a trapdoor of inequity,

let me breathe one last

kiss of life past your stone smile.

My wings are wet yet my tongue is dry;

I’m waiting for a new dream to catch my eye.

Time has passed and said its goodbyes,

a homely little town in the corner of the mirror,

with its banners hand painted and its heart

held out on a carved street sign.

And as I leave this bed behind,

this home and the fire that burns red

with love and family inside,

I know that I’ll travel on to light my own.

And for that I’m eager to dry these scales

and let my new mold cool and settle,

as I puff my feathers and poise my chest

to take on the next test of existence;

independence. 

All that surrounds me is infancy and misery, and from those two pools of filth I draw nothing.

I’m so eager to dive into college, to immerse myself in the concrete and the grit of the city. I’m patiently waiting for next weekend when I emerge from the suburbs with my wings still wet and my tongue still dry.

I’m parched, and I need some new dreams to sate my palate.