on the morning of your death.
(i am still in bed.
my blankets pulled to my belly.
its 2pm
and nothing in me
wants to move from the warmth
of my world)
i havent spoken once yet.
because words seem unformable
in my mouth.
(you died on a wednesday.
when i was 22.
in a room 6 miles from here.
there was rain on the streets
and i wore jeans
everyday
because you loved putting your hand in my pockets)
my dogs are asleep on my feet
because animals can sense
a soul ache.
and yeah
my soul is aching.
pretty steadily.
(it was a long time ago
but i still havent confronted
most of the demons
that arose back then.
the ones that burnt holes in my chest
and hands.
the ones that let me sit alone
on strange barstools
drinking shots of mexican tequila.
the ones that made me want for men
who would never make you happy.
(fuck. i want you to save me from myself.
because i couldnt save you from you.
and in some twisted
fucked up girl kinda way
i think
that we can be even.)
the ones that leave me
starving
and craving for
a moment of clarity
that exists
beyond
the east coast staring at my back
as i drive away
toward the place where i was born
and the place where i will die.)
today is heavy.
i dont know if it ever wont be.
i want a long warm bath.
a bottle of wine.
and you to call me
and tell me
that you are home.
and that for christmas
you want
one of those stupid
poorly written
mafia books
because we are italian
and we are beautiful
and amazing
and we need to understand better
where we come from.
and i want you to tell me
that you need help
buying your mothers gift.
and for you to clear your throat
when you are ready to get off the phone.
because for today
i could just use
a chance to know you are alive.
(somewhere)
even if tomorrow
youd be gone again
http://www.darkpoetry.com/node/work/81815
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