Much more than grief after death
More than affection heightened by new love
I just want the chance to feel.
Feel again, what I remember from isolated car rides.
The isolation of driving down the 101,
The moment before sunbreak and the safety of anonymity disappears.
Feel again, at what seemed to be stored, inside wooden wheelbarrows,
storing life like hallowed whisky.
Many don’t make it past the maturation process of the aged wooden cylinders.
The deafness of the conversation, mandates my lack of correct words
All that remains are an empty pack of cigarettes and a 40oz from movie night.
Who could have believed adolescent’s made it past 25.
We were never snug, never nestled in two, like a pack of Twix.
Never attached like keys, inside your pocket
The freedom of space, is a lowly lie indeed,
But an emotion non the less.
I’ve mapped the stars through inversion
The reflection of a deadlocked pool
Superficially favoring a change of course
This love accumulating over time
Has grown exponentially more exhausting
I suffer from neither contrition nor objection
Only the unshakeable conviction
That “I” as the subject have died
So much of your heart remains uninhabited
Immaculate white rooms with no juxtaposition
We sleep with our backs facing, crepuscular eyes
Seeking truce in a bilateral quarantine
I find you in the belly of false stones
Unable to extract a single door or window
From your departure, the fireplace
Winks knowingly from across the room,
There is no heat left in her body,
Flowing grey, colors gloom,
Days to nights the hours zoom.
Sitting working writing lots.
Smelling words, sniffing jots.
Tired? Never. Restless? Yes sir.
Can’t put down the dream today I don’t think this dream will go away.
Got no reason for my belief except to say I’ve grown the seed.
What can be said about passion like this – a longing a turning an obsessive fit?
Oh not too much, except what they say – a passionate man can be so unsafe.
That living obsession and fuming too much and striving too hard and churning and such,
Can lead to madness, all scrambled thoughts. Can leave you with nothing but the knowledge you’ve lost.
But oh what to do! I cry but a tear! For it’s not my fault I’m a writer, those words brought me here!
– Thomas M. Watt
Across your eyes
Like a departing Geisha.
I have known happiness
In the alacrity
Of your fingertips lacing
Vulnerability and ecstasy
Your hair spilling
From the twilight
Like a nocturne
I press my lips
To its redolent shadows
The truth is not mine
But if you would,
Your essence favor,
I would drain
The lye from your veins
Immaculate in toxicity
You leech from my flesh
All good intention
I quest for that which
My lips can find
For overexposed dendrites
And tremulous nerves
I want to know and endow
Every inch of you
I often forget that my
life is my own
to do with as I please
And all of the people
watching either have
nothing better to do or
they care enough
But in the end it’s your
decision. Whether or not
you want to up and leave
Suffocate or breathe
When you add it all up
what’s it all worth?
What’s worth worth?
Send me all of your troubles
and I’ll set you free.
There’s always room in my
swollen heart for