Fulfilled and Let Go

The feeling of someone

In my arms

When I’m sleeping

I don’t shy away

from feeling cozy

Warm and fulfilled

Yet, I have forgotten

Forgotten what it means

To be fulfilled

For I lay alone

Next to one warm body

Who doesn’t see me close here

Cold and wet

Your shadows fall on my heart

Cooling its constant burning

Your kisses speak into my veins willing them to carry life

Throughout my body and soul

As if it were a plant that’s been overwatered

All these shapes and images in my head

I cannot forget

As I finally let go of the hope I have clung so tightly to

Your touch

Nourishes my soul

I feel it long

After you’re gone

Your silent nods

As I finally hit my breakdown

I cannot ignore the feeling of wrong

Your hands are not my own

Even mine is still a stranger after all this time

That feeling

Of searching for my glasses

When they are on my head

That’s what it felt like to long for you

When you were in my heart

The whole time

Only to be misplaced

Only to be let go

Only to be

Written in collaboration with the wonderful and talented Brian from the website https://thirteendoors.wordpress.com/2019/08/ One of my greatest and long-time friends.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Death of a Butterfly

Once, when I was around five or six, I found the most beautiful monarch caught in the grill of my dads Chevy Nova. I remember thinking that maybe I could fix it as the Iowa wind made its wings flutter once more. Who knows how long it had been there, or if it suffered any. Small children don’t think about those things, we think simple, concrete things–like “can I make it fly again?”

And I believed I could. I used to believe in a lot of things back then. and part of me still does. I remember my right knee being bandaged up from wrecking my bike the day before, and how I cried as I watched the blood form a crooked, thin line down my shin. The band-aids were 12 hours old dirty and worn by this time as I sat on my knees in the gravel drive, in front of the car with the monarch. 

The right-wing felt dry against my small fingertip and it crumpled like an oak leaf in the fall beneath my pressure. Bits of orange and black stained the tip a bit, as I watched in horror at what I had just done. 

Somewhere I Used To Be

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