To you, from a future unseen.
From a tomorrow, a day-after,
an “it’s been a year but I still remember his voice.”
From a bedtime story in which you are the prince,
and there is no happy ending.
To you, from an abandoned shipwreck.
From fingers that no longer feel like my own.
From lips that you’ve kissed, and kissed,
and never will again.
From a loosely sewn curtain of a body,
from a broken window of a heart.
I tiptoe across my room past midnight,
hands through my hair; my calendar begs to differ but
it feels like not a day has passed.
I dream of screaming, of finding a voice under the debris in my windpipe,
a little oxygen lost in clouds of thick smoke.
Searching crowds, and empty streets, for your presence
and conversations for your absence.
I call these my withdrawal symptoms.
I call this the human tendency to cling to what gives us happiness,
to never be able to tell illusions from reality.
I call this a unicorn’s crash landing,
spilling all seven shades of my soul on concrete that feels like a prison underneath my feet.
Look at me; I’m
all fragile, fractured bones
all poisoned blood
all torn-apart feather cushions
all tear-stained journal entries
all math problems
and every spring that I have grown to hate,
every flower with you promises on it; smeared.
Thin down what runs in my veins;
puncture, bleed, destruct.
Numb my nerves, fail my reflexes;
beat, bruise, decimate.
To you, from unanswered questions.
From one last phone call, one more chance.
From an obsolete apology, from letters I will never mail.
My love, my madness, and my sin.