His voice reminds me of Botticelli.
You know… pastel angels, naked and soft.
The sun:
A bleeding grapefruit–
Its scarlet juices seeping into wisps of yellow, violet and blue.
I love him. I love her too.
Home–there are just so many of you.
The road rushes back.
My memories are watercolors.
These years drip into each other.
Nothing but hazy hues.
Stretches of Sand.
My lips in the rearview mirror.
Unphased, shedding layers like a python.
Sometimes they strike without warning even me.
Jeep paters to a stop.
Barefeet burning.
Black pavement.
The stench of bonfires and summer.
He calls me over,
with eyes like wildflowers,
and points to the flickering embers that litter the shore.
They’re pulled away by white knuckles
dragging light back to sea.
And Time slips out the back
because we won’t pay enough attention to her.
Keep calm.
Puddles.
Tears of melting cinnamon and something sweeter than the coffee you adored
Nothing I could have said would have brought you back,
But just maybe,
This was for the best.
Puddles.
All the things that remind me of you, now stuffed into my canvas duffle bag
It’s time for this nomad to get all packed up and to head on home.
It’s funny though, because I sincerely thought that you were my home.
Puddles.
The warmth of your voice and the sound of your skin
And all my senses blended into one, jumbled by the thought
Of how much bliss I had gained from your kisses and your caring.
Puddles.
I think back to the times when you held me in your arms;
“I will always love you,” you said, but that was never true.
It seems more accurate to say “I will always love you.”
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Whispers across a silent room,
the onlookers glance around,
claiming it to the wind,
but I stay rooted,
clinging to the voice of you,
each word
a dagger deeper
than the last- the last?
you said
no
while i pleaded yes
and
then
you were
gone
and you never
came back
to say
goodbye
My heart is divided
No longer can I hide it,
My love is a puzzle piece, and I can’t find peace.
Too scared to let my love lines decease.
So I equally give my time
Getting drunk off my quality wine.
Each one holds a special part
If one goes I will break apart.
What is a person to do
When more than one holds the glue
I could tell you that I have not the slightest clue.
The caress of one
The other is fun
Another is aggressive
And another feels as if they’ve already won
I cry at night from my confusion
A heart wrenching, sordid, ploy of revolutions
As I laugh through my delusions
And I come to the conclusion.
That in spite of my affliction
All of them are a depiction
Of something my heart transpires
Something my soul desires
But I know the consequences are dire
Because you always get burned when you play with fire
But like a moth to a flame.
I am entranced all the same.
A wild heart that can never be tamed.
A free soul that refuses to be chained.
I know I will never win in this game.
When you play with matters of the heart
Wounds will be inflicted
Hurt feelings will not be restricted
Words full of bitterness and malice will not be constricted.
My heart is divided,
Only one can make me and it whole
Only one can win me over and mend my beautifully, dark, twisted, and delicious soul.
My heart is divided,
Someone stop me, and pull on my brakes
Because my heart is divided
Only one can win
The other hearts must break.
a fortissimo recollection of memories floods my mind with thoughts
Sinking into darkness,
How did we spiral out of control like this?
We were the best of friends
How did we get so damn out of control like this?
All priorities go out the window
You are the only to-do on my checklist
Smoke screen blinding our eyes from the truth
Whoever said ignorance is bliss never tried the alternative.
Except when the alternative is the thing that gains power
It overcomes;
It overwhelms;
It makes you lose yourself.
I’ve lost myself, for sure,
But far more importantly –
I’ve lost you,
Now that we’ve become
Out of control like this.
As expected, you died.
No mysterious tragedy.
I promised I wouldn’t cry.
Vivaciously intertwined with
the untamed, the souls who are alive;
body carried out
with the songs of your life, leaving doubt.
They expected you would die
But you showed me the Moon when I was three.
And you told me to dance for her
because she often felt lonely.
You revealed other things—
how to make mud pies
and why some creatures have wings.
You own some too, they tell me.
They kept saying it was expected.
Even if I can’t accept it,
you died.
December 23 1888:
Vincent Van Gogh takes a sharp edge against his head Successfully cutting off his ear.
On May 8 1889,
He admits himself into the Saint Paul de Mausole lunatic asylum.
It is here,
In the catacombs of his wax coated, pressed-to-package heart
Where his blood streams the will of his hand creating his most famous, and beautiful masterpieces.
My darling, you are not the dried up paint
Cracked off to flake into the air
Particle by particle
Being inhaled by those unworthy of your scent.
Don’t you ever feel like the symptoms of death-
The left over, missed nibbles of creation.
He ate yellow Paint
We eat yellow Paint
You are my yellow Paint.
The only reason my body has not fallen victim to toxins in my bloodstream
As he did
Is because
You have a direct biological correlation to my happiness
The fumes of paint mix and dance with the fumes of my despair
Organs made canvas
Premature shapes
Colors splattered
Product is you.
You don’t just coat my stomach with prosthetic beauty
You are the irises
You are MY irises
My darling,
I can see the starry view from my asylum window.
I am having my first out of body experience
That will not scar me physically as I shove my hand through the window
Just to try and touch the fire of night.
I look so,
Desperate.
Gasping for a single breath hoping I finally reach the passion
Every time I try to paint starry night it comes out as your face.
I carved it into my skin
Melted my flesh and bone
Molding myself into what beauty could be
But I am a 2D appreciating enthusiast.
I notice the fluorescent lights
pulsating
I think of your eyes and the way they retract and grow as you go from crying to
Discussing the way the flowers in your brain
Tickle the inside of your ears.
May whoever try to rip them from the pores of your skin
Rot in Hell.
Even I in all my idiocy know how
It feels to get lost in the
Tranquil trance of fragrance.
To be completely fine with disarray.
My darling,
You are my music.
I’m chugging gallons of paint closing my ears shut.
Whatever Van Gogh tried to silence
Will not infest my brain
Not while you remain a pesticide.
Not while you’re here.
Whispering. Humming. Kissing.
Breathing
The oxygen from your own plants
Giving me CPR
trying to clean out my lungs hoping my ears pop
But my hands stop you.
You’d make it too easy.
I want to make sure every word that falls into the cavern of my aching body
Leaves a seed that can only be watered by the paint that I feed on.
Insanity for a being.
Insanity for being.
I’ll admit myself.
The view is so nice here.
The view is so pretty here.
Self designed, molded by Pygmalion.
The view is so beautiful here.
July 29, 1890:
Van Gogh dies from two gunshot wounds to the chest from 2 days earlier.
The package, has been opened.
Inkling 