caitlinmonster
we are never scalpel sharp or lab coat strict, but we are scientific in our organic grit... the astronomy of your sunspot freckles, the supernovas under our eyelashes, my unrelenting inertia toward you and the homeostasis you have fostered in my blood, the safety we have created in this private biosphere...
I have laid a banquet for myself, feasting on bits of gristle and my self-loathing, laid out plates and plates of the things I have done wrong, and every morning I offer myself a cup filled to brimming with those voices telling me I cannot and I cannot and I cannot, and every morning I drain it dry.
Like some kind of falcon weaving through clouds and diving into your curled fingers, I have been caught in the sky and wheeling away and back. And how could I know you have been waiting to call me home. I was blind until you undressed my eyes. I am steady only in your hands.
the wanting and the not having, the pushing through and the without - the sitting here, the waiting and you are through the next room, through fifteen walls turned to brick - the soldiering through this aloneness, the reaching for you through this fog and the absence of you at the end of my arm
tracing my fingers along the globe of your back, its spiny mountain ranges and the softness of the ocean between your shoulder blades - you have always been the whole world to me, mapped with little veins like roads pointing me home, steering my ship back to the center of you
Pressing books to my chest in a rented apartment, pressing impermanence against my skin and hoping this time something (at least) will stick. We are making a home out of a borrowed collection of walls, promising ourselves forever, or for a while.
wintertime like mint snowflakes crystallizing on my tongue, and all I am is the lack of you. this week I will find myself in the same places I held your mitten-fingers last year, and I will feel the wind sharper than I did then.
winter is time for sweeping
here in Texas, where leaves fall
but snow doesn't. and we're left sweeping
old memories into tin cans
and placing them on our bedside tables
and saving them for spring again
the cold fronts are sweeping in
and we are collecting ourselves into dust pans
I am emptying myself into the waste basket
and trying to make room on my skin
for something better than
layers of dead sunburn, and maybe
this winter wind will sweep me up
and spin me into gold
I wanna tailgate you. I never really learned what tailgate meant, because I'm not into football. But it sounds like hanging on to the back of you, probably while you're speeding forward and I'm along for the ride. And the view doesn't suck, either. I just wanna grab hold of you and let you do your thing, and I'll just let the breeze blow through my hair while you run, and I'll just draft behind you.
in pursuit of something less
heart-rip or drenched and panting
in pursuit of stopping, of breathing slow
and waiting
in pursuit of something more
gentle or breeze-kissed
in pursuit of stopping, of breathing slow
in pursuit of waiting
but all I keep doing is running
and hoping for a break soon
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