(Source: etsy.com)
4.11.11
oceans in our bed at night,
i don’t trust that feeling anymore
when we slept under
covers, wrapped in each other’s
star lined arms
i thought i knew forever. i thought solitude
meant always being with you.
now oceans in my bed at night
are the drowned memories
of constellations mapped out on your hands,
and understanding is that everything
changes, rises, recedes, leaving
in its wake the debris
of expired dreams.
4.4.11
she consisted of shadows and the sea, whispering
to herself
in corners of the house,
writing notes in nonsense languages, reading
seashells and sea grass, and pressing
food to her mouth (like how
moths press themselves
to glass)
she drank her dreams
in great freezing gulps, wide-eyed,
gasping, so that at night she had the look
of a fish that had
drowned.
