a radiant light over mexico.
dear maria, i am writing to you from a city of stars.
i stood at the bridge, watched the cars shine in and out of black and
i remembered the snowflakes in your eyelashes and strands of your
hair. we stepped in from the cold and brushed all the tiny little stars
from eachother's clothes, and we sank into the plush couch in your
front room with the heating up full and buried beneath the blankets.
there are stars in the high-rises, tiny squares of life in
space and valerie is sat in her desk chair, she's keeping
herself awake all night to finish that big project for the
board tomorrow. she rubs her fingers against tired eyes
and wills the night to dissipate around her, give way to
morning and the great rebirth.
there are stars in the depths of the riverbeds, weeds
growing small and thriving off the gift of life under the
rippling surface, and they hope to one day break free
from their watery confines. we crushed them with the
weight of our laughter, treading carefully through the
current to find our secret state of mind where no one
will ever hurt us again.
-
dear maria, i left you alone in this house of wolves,
left you to be eaten alive by our betrayals and i'm
sorry you were forced to slope away to some dark
alley to lick your wounds and recuperate on your
own. you know me better than i know myself, you
know beneath the paint and stage makeup of my
indifference i pine for oceans and cotton sheets
cool against my skin, and your eyes hooded in
tired amusement on the first sunday of the month.
maria, the stars are still shining in this lonely city
and your phantom memory surrounds me as i stand
on the overpass at midnight waiting for you to call
me back home. they look distinctly like your eyes, i
think, and they are so beautiful in the depths of dark
they are set into. like your bruised purple eyelids,
covered in pixie dust you paid five pounds forty for
and saved for special occasions when we would
dance under the streetlights in a drunken haze of
mexican destiny.
-
dear maria, i am writing to you from a city of stars, where
i count off the cars hoping one is bringing you back to me.
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Comments
--
30 amnesias; après moi, le déluge. je suis désolé.
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30 amnesias; après moi, le déluge. je suis désolé.
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30 amnesias; après moi, le déluge. je suis désolé.
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30 amnesias; après moi, le déluge. je suis désolé.
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" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
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i knew you were dead when you opened your eyes.
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