as you walked out the door tonight
so late
so late tonight
i-
in my messy ponytail, gray sweats and pj shirt
skin tired and pale, a
little red defiant pimple showing up above my left
eye-
was throttled by this sudden
fear
 that you are about to walk away.
about to leave and never come back
because why would you.
and i almost cried right there on the landing.
you turned and kissed my cheekbones.
a goodnight was exchanged.

please come back tomorrow.
please don't be walking out on me
i don't think my heart could stand any more of that.
i think i would asphyxiate on
my heart as it climbed up my throat
in a suicidal attempt to say
everything its ever needed to
because i forced it shut and silent so long
to this day.

what if i open it again,
meaning for just a crack
just a few things let out
just a small thing let in-
and it bursts
all over the floor and pillows and me and you
what do i do then?

its been a long night.

you aren't subtle when you run

moonlight bike ride through suburbia
i love the smell of cooling concert
and new lilacs.

you are not adventurous.
you have a poker face
as home base.

but you smile nice at me.

i don't like suburbia.
i dont think i ever will.
too croweded
too narrow.
but i love bike rides.
i love summer nights.
i love flowers and fresh cut grass and i love knowing maybe one day you'll be riding next to me, instead of all the men and boys i have to hold your place and replace you.

goodnight blogging world.

She is wearing rags and feathers, from Salvation Army counters

it's odd, knowing that
everything i've regretted recently,

has lead me here to you, and your absense.
Every lover
with eyes that warm and hands that tear;
Looking around my workshop

[as it is tonight, just that] I see evidence
of myself in everything:
the stickie note above the bed, the cup of coffee and glass of water. A pair of heels. A kleenex box perched percariously on a stack of books. 5 notebooks in plain sight.
The absense of you.
The dreams [nighmares] skulking on the cealing, reaching down occasionally to tickle my face or pull my hair.
If I were brave, I'd deal with them.
Banishing some, letting others go - after tender goodbyes - and helping a few down, making them adjust and adapt to reality;
'til I once again have control

[in the absense of you]

a voice whispers : there is
poetry
in the dark my darling, and what are you?
Sandy gritty eyes [my own]
peel open to have a look about;
What poetry where? Who's darling am I tonight?
"What I am" has little consequence tonight - while voice unseeable whisper, priorities shit to accomidate them [& besides, the only part of that statement that is new to is not that]
What poetry?
The stuff in my mind, the words of madness' voice? Or is it perhaps under my pillow? At the foot of my bed, or hiding in a cup? Hovering above me [ in such case, perhaps it entered with our friend here]
I blink at the sand in my eyes.
When did time move from 1 to 4?
Why am I afriad - when did I find the time for his nightmare?
I shiver.
4 to 10am.
The poetry came with the sun.