loss

what can we do with loss but try to find it, pronounce it. roll the rs even when the word is already gone beyond the procession of fences, the frightened warriors, the dried tongues, and the honeyed pews. seek familiarity with all the breathless sensations invoked--the candid scriptures, the missing hands, and the secrets of the gleaming ice.

this artifice, fully framed, picture-perfect, is always intentional.

words

i often think i'm losing words, that they are somehow trailing behind me, until i'm honest with myself and admit that those words were never mine.

a confession

i think of you, not often, but often enough. the thoughts diffuse like a broken string of beads moving down the staircase you may be descending or ascending. the beads fall nonchalantly in a linear manner, aligned and rhythmic, into an amorphous space. i delude my self with an illusive familiarity: you are alone, of course. the beads have disappeared. at the precipice, surely you think of me, too. the walls are narrower than i first perceived. we disperse facts and anecdotes. since we are on equal footing now, i have to confess that i am now thinking of death and you must be too. it is the epicentre of this building--floating, gliding, metamorphosing, alive. nothing can reverse its movement. my angst arises and i begin to falter; you are now difficult to read, you always were. i notice the brown creaks, the evasive dust, loose hair, broken hairpin, torn note, and muddied foot prints on the stairs. none belong to you.