My Old Crumpled Letter to _ That I’m About to Burn

I’m going to pretend like it didn’t hurt;
brush it out of my heart,
pack it in a pocket of a pair of jeans
that I’m about to set on fire,
because they say fire can cleanse all things.
I’m going to pretend that you didn’t notice
the synchronicities falling out of our head
spaces to the rhythm of a metronome
that we programmed in a time traveling window.
I’m going to pretend that you didn’t feel
the galaxies pulsing through our bodies
and forming nebulas with each heavy
dark matter breath and vibrating touch.
It’s easier to pretend this
than to say how much this is
like a machete to my soul,
and that you’re a fucking coward.


Lost in Space

Your face is dark
like space
and the lostness
of what I was searching for
in a space
of molten hearts;
and i eat rocks
breaking off the moon
everyday for nine years now.
Your face a ghost of all
the other ghosts before you
and after you.

Heart Bag

Her heart lives in a bag
outside, blowing with the wind
rolling in the dirt and rocks
sometimes floating, just barely
but always
in swamps.
She tied it to a stick once
with ligaments of swamp creatures:
stringy and fierce, and full of teeth.
But the bag ripped,
heart out, and bleeding
Never tied to a stick