Flatsound - Saturday dec 14 2013

it’s been exactly one year since i wrote that first poem about you. i sat in bed and started thinking about what happened at sandy hook, and how fragile life is, and how much i wanted you in mine. when you read it you said you teared up and couldn’t believe whatever this was we found in each other. you called it indescribable. i lied in the same spot a year later with you beside me - emotionless. thinking about how i watched you change with every season. how spring turned into summer turned into autumn turned into winter. how the purity of something new became as hot as the persistent day as it rests too heavily on tired flowers. and how when that tiredness wins, they die like everything else.

i could feel my chest collapsing that night i sat in the stairway and read every word you had written to someone else while you were gone. how you teared up when you read the words he wrote to you. how you couldn’t believe what you found. you even called it indescribable. now i can’t stop thinking about what those words might have been and how they compare to mine. i can’t sleep because i need to know what you found and if it feels anything like what i lost. i’m sorry if i’m so stuck in this. it’s just before you came along i spent four years with someone who would watch me watch the world but couldn’t hold my hand and see what i saw. someone who loved me so much but couldn’t understand how a human soul could mimic the seasons, or how a person can be fine for so long but wake up one morning wanting to die all over again. so when that feeling rises over the mountains all i ask of the world is that they greet it differently than pagans when they worship the sun.

i am old soil mixed with the compulsion to describe what used to grow here, to describe the indescribable sensation of life in a dying field. as if remembering the smell of your blossoms is the only thing keeping me alive.