a great divide

birds made of wire gawk their slow turning heads,
fix their hallow eyes downward, hover over your deathbed.
while you close your eyes and wait for night to pass,
i fetal on the floor of this house of glass.
know, i see the fields outside this square trap.
i know i can pick one of the blooming flowers if i bridge this gap.
but i can't escape the need to hold your hand as you sleep,
can't let go of the hope of promises you vowed to keep.
but the gaping birds don't squawk lies,
and i know that if i stay here by your bedside,
this house will shatter, my heart will splinter
and we will eventually die.

..

the moment that broke me was when you tangled your fingers between mine and said nothing. the silence spoke everything louder than you ever could have and crossed every single line i had drawn and shattered all the pitifully-built walls i had made for myself. this is wretched-- my skin coming off, my face rotting away, my words losing any support they once had. it is exactly what i hate and, therefore, i hate holding hands.

i want you to know that i didn't mean to dangle my feet.

my name? it doesn't matter.

i had a dream about you last night, and it felt
so real that when I awoke, I felt content
at last.
but, alas, i remembered it was only make believe.
i could have wept a waterfall that drowned
every city below me.

the wind set in
and made everything colder.
froze your heart, made my eyes lower.
took every shred of my torn up letter
and put the pieces back together, solely so you could
read it one more time.
instead, you burned my note and the wind carried its ashes
all the way to the sea.