Not in Rivers But in Drops

1.

When he first met her, he would have sworn to anyone that would listen that her eyes were the color of sun drenched sand, gold flecks and all. Now, whenever he looks into those vacant eyes, he pictures old water that has been soaking in dead cigarette butts.

How did it come to this?

The universe, he’s sure, has many answers to this question, all of which elude him. He has never been a great thinker. His perception is limited when it comes to matters of the heart. He couldn’t see the slow degradation of the relationship before him. The only thought that comes to mind is that even Rome ended up burning to the ground.

It’s Friday night. Friday nights used to be “date night”, but now they sit in separate rooms and masturbate to different porn and act like they no longer exist to each other. He wonders if the convenience is worth the misery. He usually comes to the conclusion that it is, because his dick still gets hard when she touches him. Even if it is with a slap to the face. The color of comfort is often the greatest physical stimulation one can experience.

He wasn’t ready to be alone.

2.

She used to love the way he would compliment her. He once said she had gold flecks in her eyes, which she never noticed, but the way he said it would make anyone believe it were true. Now his words are like poison, sipped slowly from beer bottles that now line what once was their breakfast nook. They used to make each other breakfast on alternating weekends, sit there and slowly recover from the past nights hangover. It was their way, and she couldn’t think of anything better.

Now she looks at the breakfast nook covered in these bottles with resentment. She knows he won’t clean them up. She stares at him lying on the couch in his underwear, burping and rubbing his crotch. She hates him, but her pussy still gets wet thinking about how it used to be. She could straddle him right now and bring him to exctasy, but if she does that, she would just be tossed aside like some used up toy.

Why did she let it come to this?

She thinks perhaps she let herself go, or she wasn’t sexy enough, or that he may even be having an affair. Her mind lingers in these places until she can no longer see passed her own nose. Everything was always her fault. Always. That’s what her mother taught her when she was young. That’s how her father made her feel when he left.

She didn’t know how to be alone.

3.

“I used to love her.” (“I used to love him.”)

you could hear her break
like bad news

if times change
and people change
then why are there words like static,
or same?

so we can say things like,
“noithing ever stays the same”
 ?

but, instead, we break
and say things like,
“nothing ever changes”,
as tears carve canyons into our faces

but she will never be the same
and nothing ever changes

the dust settled
in the spaces of the air
where oxygen and nitrogen
have yet to collide

between the spaces of fingers
where strangers might meet
and loneliness may abate
for the flutter of a hummingbirds wings

and in instants
the skies open up
and rain falls
on waiting fertile soil

and in moments
the earth opens up
and all the flowers
will be swallowed

the people look like weeds
from up here in the trees
land on your feet
finish somewhere inside of me

the alps were not meant for climbing
but your lips are always calling
and like any other man
i continue, step after step
finger after slipping finger

and venice is sinking
take my hand, take my hand
say you still believe in me
taste the health of your skin
feel your heart beating
never giving in

i know these walls
i mixed the cement
and poured the foundation

the little window, i made
to see the birds sing
and fly away

bars melted and molded
from the sturdiest of steel
and a single locked door

the loneliness echoes
it sits in your ears
and the darkness closes around you

trapped with the tragic knowledge
a man creates his own prison
and expects someone else to hold the keys
that can set him free.

i don’t write anymore
i just hit the keys
put words in a certain order
and play pretend

you can’t write
when you don’t care
about anything.

two lighters on the table
“why do you have lighters if you quit smoking?”
she asked

“why do you have hatred if you’ve quit loving?”
i countered

and then she kissed me
because I am writing this story
and I need a happy ending.

some people live their lives at the top
most live somewhere in the middle
then the rest have tired legs
trying to jump from the bottom

when i finally flatline
that may be the highest
plain i ever find

we were at your place
paul and I
You made us dinner
and we were hanging out in your driveway
lying on your bed
why is your bed on the driveway?

this is crazy, i thought
it was only a passing moment
as paul made milk shakes
and passed them around

we spoke, You and i
conversation came easy
about life, and, love and nothing
discussions we should always have
but never do

You handed us glasses
and we drank until our cheeks were a red
that matched the color of the wine
and our laughter was filled with grapes

we were flawed and the day was flawless
and somehow it ended
but it hasn’t ended
and it never really was

Take me for a ride
I’ve been bleeding at the wheel
Ask me how I feel
I still feel so real

Just keep driving
Before the sky collapses in on us
I feel my insides opening up
and I still feel so alive

The road is calling for us
Lets just keep going
We can let the dawn heal us
and we’ll just keep breathing

Until our breaths find synchronicity
and the world envelops us
Born again on this empty road
Born again in this crowded car

Until we let it all go
With our clasped hands
and endless road of dreams
Just let go of the wheel, and see.