Undefined.

Last night our poet chastised me with his moth-eaten words
while the stars passed over my skin in whispers,
carrying a torch for something long since dead.

when sleep finally comes, the animal howls;
I wake with the worst whiplash.

afternoon light punctures my iris as I lift the blinds,
colors shift and a certain strand of loneliness permeates my bones,
quickly etching just one more could-have-been under my skin
with a flash of green that mirrors your eyes a little too well.

the trees seem even taller today, and my palms a little smaller.
these fleshy routes mock me while burning pavement stares,
unblinking, into a sky that doesn't live up to its own emptiness.

with shaking hands, whether from fear or anger
I turn to the book of candid love letters, your confessional,
which nests on a shelf between worn out words of my own.

its pages smell of the candy you sent that summer,
melted on my doorstop in their vibrant plastic beds.
the instinct to breathe deeper braids through my ribcage
in earnest attempt to imagine you closer,
or at least not.. gone.

I lament - even the art buried in a stranger's poetry
stings me like a wicked tongue; did you mean to anchor me
with those ill-fashioned words of goodbye?

(c) Novalyn Grace RR
September 12th, 2012 5:52pm

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This isn't expected to be revered, I just need to work through some things. More like word-vomit, really.