still life

the streets are dripping like a painting in progress; we’re becoming a blur, him and I, but I’m soaked from head to toe and he’s dry. “you don’t know who you are and I can’t tell you that,” he says with the shake of his head. he speaks so carefully, like someone from a book I read.
we stop under an apartment, the balconies shield us from the rain. I grab his hands and hope to never feel this again. he’s slipping away, they’re painting him out and I am without color. I look up and notice that the sky is getting duller.
he’s about to say his last words, his mouth curls, he says, “take care.” and as he walks away he leaves me with an unfamiliar stare. I turn away and reassure myself that he was never there.

sunk

tried and tested,
here I am again,
restless and deep
it’s the stream of smoke,
softly linear
or maybe the dust
hovering  in the sunlight to be seen
no, it’s more than that,
it’s the quiet fear

feckless

nonfunctioning,
like sticky floors and leaky faucets,
no one likes the drip, drip, drip
or the stick, stick, stick

even broken clocks,
or open windows,
cold air and ripped screens,
no one likes the breeze,
or the tick, tick, tick

resolve

lovers sin while bearing grins
your smirks too shy to tell,
the distance between us,
your eyes unfocused
an absence I know all too well,

despite the words,
the nouns, the verbs,
the colors you didn’t see

your gaping black holes,
the cracks, the folds,
undeserving me

exerpt

His desk was made of dark wood and when you ran your fingertips across it, you could feel a soft kindness. His plants were green, alive and thriving and the sky outside behind his damp hanging clothes was a brownish ash color.

I opened the balcony door to take a deep breath, a mix of fresh air and cigarettes. His cats rubbed against my bare legs, my hair pinned back and one of his t shirts hung on me above my white socks.

The night was dry like the few bottles of Riesling I finished off before showing up at his door the night before, unannounced. Not knowing what I was going to get, just wanting to spend hours looking into his eyes sitting on his sofa I could always feel myself infinitely sink into. His building was ancient and harbored the same musky smell as any of the other old mansions in the city. Nathan took my hand and walked me up the old staircase. I wondered how many other vulnerable women climbed the same path as I since it had been carved.

“Nate,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry, it’s so late.”
“Shh,” he said quietly, closing his door behind us.

I looked around his dim lit apartment after kicking off both of my shoes. Nothing had changed. His book shelves still unsorted, ivy hanging from his bay windows, a sense of familiarity that made my muscles tighten inside of my chest.

We talked and touched like we had just seen each other the night before. My head was spinning, his balcony lights blurred and danced around my eyes. His kiss burning into my neck; his hands carving into my back. I stared up at the ceiling and focused on the hazy, constant flow of nothing but good feeling.