[concerning death]

the fascination

keeps me moving.

lunging into corners

startling silence with musings,

i can't help but wonder.

the unnaturalness

against how natural it is,

the sadness

mixed with the need to know

every. gruesome. detail.

the awe of

blinding, flashing, brilliance,

and the disappointment in anything less.

the desire to conquer the one power

we could never defy...

and why can't we ever find the words?

we use wreaths and black sheaths

to say we're sad

but what should we speak

when faced with fact?

since eulogies are only acceptances

of awards not realized alive,

and obituaries the only details we can bare to share,

headstones just name tags to fallen faces,

words fail us.

and i fail words...

for i can't find the right combination

to offer mourner.

i fidget, lower my head

in reverence of a place

i don't quite believe in.

i send cards with generalities,

and give space that doesn't save a person

any pain.

i don't want to be a

fake friend or family member

telling easy stories when all i wish to do is

take blanket and bury myself

until i am ready.

and i am not ready...

to talk about it.

but when i am,

we can share our hand-sown stitches,

in lazy late afternoon,

in 3 a.m. urgency

for there is no comfortable position

to take the call telling you

someone's gone.

the spaces between our bones and flesh

that keep count of our losses

the ticks and tallies

of the many pricks to our pride

our hope

our faith

are crevassed and cared for, in private.

and we have no words

no way to relate

that we don't know what it means

to never be the same.

so we use music,

affection,

letters,

flowers,

food

to translate.

we all have lost,

and from our own empty

we can read these gestures.

for you are lacking,

and i understand.

Toying...

Paper-mâché  me around your wrist

a cast to call the time, to be your watch

Bead me through your ears

and hear me dangle

Braid my body to beautify yours

your masterpiece; your art

It's a travesty the sign reads "Do Not Touch"

for you stand in a museum now

in a glass case, as memorabilia,

as a token of a love short-lived

and I want to unlock you and

spend the afternoon in play- only this time,

you'd let me win

and this time

it'd only be a game and we'd be okay at sundown.

And I wouldn't have pushed you away

for envy, insecurity,

like the hummingbird

who knows the more honey she seeks

the closer to her defeat she becomes

I couldn't help myself.

I loved, but I never learned a love that

lets things happen as they may,

that hands hearts to fate and feels okay with it.

Sometimes, I think, you have to make things happen.

And I make things.

I create,

and we are a collage.

A couple.

Me- gluing my life

to yours,

cutting my life

to suit yours,

the colors both compliment and contrast

it was a fast project what we made.

And the pride I felt

holding it up to the light,

watching our faces dance

by my hand's movements,

but you can't bring picture perfect to life that way...

Though my memory sees our caring arts and crafts game-

it fails to remember

the quiet rustle of wastebasket

and the scraps that never were

quite contained.