i hope my words are strange and wondrous,

like kisses that quiet all things superfluous,

so that we can all stop and

listen

i've taken to separating my posts because the voices in my head just will not be quiet

and the irony in my overwhelming ability to share is marred by the the banishment of he who is the eternal listener.

the feeling you get when something great happens and you're excited to tell someone

and then the realization that there is

no one

to tell.

and there is a slight pause and a little laugh at the absurdity but in reality its a defense cap on the self-pity that threatens to run over and spill all over your canvas of a beautiful day.

this,

is what healing feels like.

--

to be unused because the chapter is closed on that one.

but because i still have stanzas bouncing around my head from time to time.

there is too much.

--

in thumbing through accounts of the past

i find myself unable to erase traces of you.

not that i want to personally,

but the public eye is hateful

and i fear for our lives.

however,

there seems to be no way to take you out without subsequently

wiping out huge parts of other

as well.

and the black hole i create will suck down

faces upon faces

memory upon memory

and loss.

this is the moment i guess

where i have to come to terms with the fact

that the past is unchangeable

in the most brutal sense.

but to always have you,

somewhere in the pages of old herstory

gives me much comfort.

that the past is unchangeable

in the most beautiful sense.

i am a culmination of pasts upon pasts upon pasts,

teardrops collected in a glass

and blended in with laughter to turn a most delicious tint of blue.

blue for evoked-nostalgia in remembering,

blue from laughing till one goes out of breath,

and blue from that heavy sad feeling of regret.

our first pictures together in public history

remind me of things i didn't put down.

the spaces between the spaces between the lines between the lines.

the greatest cover-up of all time is that which will never be known

because the edges flow seamlessly into

a lump of once-was-but-no-more.

i step back in fascination

trying to figure out how it happened, how it unfolded and how it all ended

and the absurdity of me sitting here right now

as me, me created as such by mostly you.

forever indebted and forever left ungrateful

for i can't repay you in love.

but as all extractions go,

it hurt when it was there,

it hurt in the removal,

it hurt in the healing

but thereafter

no more holes.

the last picture of us,

are of my hands -

encroaching a picture of you and another.

no longer in the frame,

but always somewhat,

slightly there.

---