the book of you.

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Every Day I Write the Book
Chapters 37-38 + Epilogue.

Under the guise of forgiveness,
we walked,
married to the steps that brought us here.
A song stuck on repeat,
a needle stuck in the groove.
Revolutionary relations
turning circles 'round the sun,
we spun,
out of control;
landed on empty,
wrong way on a one way track.
Pick up the pieces,
run the clock back;
the game was over
before it started.

You are the albatross
choking my voice.
I am lost amongst a sea of words,
broken verse and bleeding heart,
I have traded poetry in
for cliche.
Molded words to fit around your face,
pressed my pen up against dead lines
and found only you
hanging from their end.

But where do I begin?


Consider this an epilogue foretold
to our never-ending story.
The prophecy of goodbye
scribed in sheets
that once held you close.

The pen grows tired
of playing martyr to your cause;
words weighed down
with the pieces of your crumbling world.
Ransom my thoughts,
I'll gladly pay to reclaim them.

This is where it all falls apart.
The quiet climax that was long overdue.

Every day I write the book of you,
but what is left
when I've written you off?

The End.

the aftermath.

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(written to this beat)

The Aftermath Of You

If these walls could talk
they would speak of morning's sun
blanketing sleeping bodies,
breakfast in bed
and a love
that swore it had no end.

They would tell of midnight slow dances,
Sade's serenades,
and you and me,
hugging each other with our laughter.

If these walls spoke the truth,
they would tell of your arm
arced over my back,
curled like a question mark
around my silence.
They would betray the secrets of sleepless nights,
of my pacing feet
wearing grooves into the floor.

They would sob with the images
that cowered in their corners;
your wild eyes and sweaty brow,
heavy hand and painful sounds
that could never be forgotten.

They would not hide truth behind a broken smile,
or pack it into the backs of closets
amidst boxes and winter coats
only to be brought out
when the weather turns cold.

If these walls could talk,
they would remind me of our story

so I could remember

how to make it end.

This is a broken home
with closed windows and locked doors
filled with ghost shadows and echoed voices.
Your face, absent from picture frames,
yet still I see you
in the dust
that lines their edges.

Your scent in my sheets.
Your footsteps in the hall.
I have scrubbed my skin raw a thousand times
but find you still
embedded in my pores.

Sarcophagus heart,
tomb in my chest,
I have left you here to die.
Bartered emotion for sanity
and prayed for nights
when your face
would no longer line the backs of eyelids.

There is no breath here.
No air.
I choke on the memory of you.
Swallow words and speak in silence,
there is nothing more to say.
Nothing left to give.

You are a cave,
filled up with the parts of me
that I have already let go.

The gentle smile,
the beating heart,
the opened hand,
the trusting way.

All is lost
in the aftermath
of you.


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Papa's been drinkin'
and I retreat into darkened closet
behind winter jackets.
Back, pressed into wall;
knees, pressed into chest.
If I make myself small, he won't find me.

She's crying,
from the other side of the wall.
What kind of son am I
to watch his mama fall
under heavy fist, skin sweating whiskey
on her town nightgown.

One day I'll be a man
and it won't go down
like this.

I've been drinking, crying vodka tears
through heavy lidded eyes.
Shoulders sloping, back broken
from carrying the weight of too many worlds
for too many years.
We all fall down-

I find myself
face down in a darkened street,
cheek against wet concrete.
It's raining,
as if the night sky was commiserating.
Drank my last dollars until I drowned,
only way to stay afloat in this madness.
Empty pockets, empty bank account.
Have to get home
Have to tell her
there's no more money left;
there won't be a check this week
but I swear to God we'll make it-

I find my feet,
stumble through empty streets.
They know the way and lead me home.
Where her arms will be a balm
to soothe this storm and make me feel
less alone.

But she's yelling;
telling me I'll never be a man
if I can't provide for us
and I can't
I swear to god I can't listen to this.
Fingers clench into fist
I'm sweating vodka now, lost in dizziness.
And she's crying, hold down her wrists.

Bitch I said we'll
get through this...
Stop screaming and let me
think through this.

(Her shuddering skin
meets open fist.)

Papa beat on mama
and I swore I'd be a better man.
But sometimes life reads too heavy
and I continue the story he began.


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He breaks light,
rising from a distance
in twisted tendrils
that thread through silent mornings.
He be the sun,
shine down into darkened spaces,
with the fury and the flame that
brings forth life,
makes rise the sleeping spirits
from their bedded graves.
With boldness of breath
he brings the heat
that will burn any
who dare tread
too close.

She is the moon,
daunting and pale-faced;
midnight mystery wrapped in mist.
A gentle lullaby, her sighs
will rock-a-bye
all who become trapped
in her sweeping gaze.
She taunts from a distance,
cold and detached,
twisting minds into lunacy.
This lunar she,
will pull the tides
to crash upon shores
as she pushes the light away.

And together they dance in tension,
upon a bed of spinning constellations,
stealing the sky's stage from one another
with each passing day.
In a flirtatious give and take,
they draw slowly together,
but cosmic law ensures
that together they never stay.

Yet every so often you will find them,
defenses lowered by temptation,
embraced in an eclipse
of submissive opposition at play.

ATOM 0.3