Dear Sun

l used to follow your footsteps in the sand,
but they are lost to me in these winds of change.

The city seems colder now,
closed to me in my time of need,
the doors have darkened to my magic,
long nights have set their chill into my bones.

(I carry the knife with me, always.
I carry your heart with me, always).

I search for your light along the horizon,
but I am slave to the moon, her pull
beating me endlessly against the sand.

(The tower breathes in the distance,
pulsates that familiar thumpthump…

my chest is hollow, craving, aching, tugged toward
that unavoidable expectation).

This is no longer an oasis,
the water turned stagnant from lack of sun.
There are no shadows, just infinite rivers of ink.

(I carry the knife with me, always.
I carry your heart with me…)

it is your name etched on the box,
but it is her face I see in my reflection,
her teeth grinning from the corner–

(she can still taste the worlds you left behind;

I can still taste the love I left on your tongue.
I can still feel your soul buried in my spine).

I continue to chase the sun, born back to
the beginning, ceaselessly.

(destiny drags me along the well-worn streets,
blood dripping from my hands, inescapable).

I feel the heat of the sun,
the light breaks the horizon…

I wake.

wishes from the undertow

I never claimed loving me would be easy.
(you begged me to make it fair–
I shoved a knife in the space between your ribs
and ate your breath to the rhythm of your surprise).

I always had this notion,
that you belonged not with me
but to me.
(that was our final undoing. that
act of possession over partnership).

I can still feel the slide of you lips
against my skin as I took your first kiss
(the world you were all to happy to part with),
the spark of your body as, years later,
I took your innocence, your convictions
(it was all too easy).

(you never quite gave up the hold on your heart).

I never wanted it to end this way.
(you made me your villian–
I took the shape of the words you left unsaid,
and in their absense became brighter than the force of your soul).

you spent years asking me to write
the final page,
gloss the finish you couldn’t
quite grasp.

(the beginnings that sprouted
from the pages I burned
are more beautiful than I
ever could’ve put to words).


my last gift to you.