Last 3 letters of the spring

I have all this love

I don’t know what to do with it

I can’t call it by your name

Therefore, it’s nameless 

It has no shape, no smell, no future

It will never go places 

It doesn’t take breaks nor wants to leave me

It’s stuck

It’s stuck inside me

somewhere between my ribs and my belly button 

I can’t even give it to someone else

Because it’s yours,

It’s yours

always))

You said you didn’t want to be here 

as in the room?

as in love?

As in with me?

As in at all?

It stayed with me

that one hour

The way I took my clothes off

My white vest first

It felt like smoke in the lungs of a person who never smoked

Then my skirt

I said, I don’t want to wrinkle it 

funny—these are the things we worry about before it’s all gone

I left it on the edge of the bed, and in my underwear with my long, messed-up hair 

I laid next to you

kissing your arm

kissing your chest 

kissed your face

So this is how death must be happening to someone

It’s been 5 months 

Still not sure whether it was real or fair, or right 

So this is how death must feel for someone…It’s been 

5 months; still not sure whether I wanna be here 

as in the room?

as in love? 

As in with you?

As in at all?

The idea of a headache

more like getting drunk 

in a packed, heartbreakingly smelling bar

a universal truth claiming

When your soul cracks open, it reeks of cheap sex and chlorine 

from all that cleaning I’ve been drowning myself in: high functioning depression 

of eastern european women; beautiful vision

toying with a random bartender 

as if he were a mouse I took hostage under my wicked claws 

You like watching me flirt with strangers

clenching your fists underneath the table

to prove how manly you are: you don’t want me, you wanna be me;

gorgeous view

knowing perfectly well, I’ll write something about this very moment later

a couple of lines

saying

the idea of being the last one sober

The smell of eternity dying slowly in your arms, holy

no more than a death unknown to cold-blooded creatures – that’s us

Two cowards silently giving up 

meeting each month in crowded bars, reliving surrender until they stop pretending 

that

this 

isn’t love. 

Don’t wanna talk to a specialist.

Got you some books

because I don’t fuck people who never read 

I said

smart people are hot

also 

commitment 

Had I burnt the bridge with myself on it? Leaving behind my right shin imprinted on your right shoulder kiss the traces of hope I’ve been stepping on stark naked, what’s given would have stayed

what’s taken would have never lingered – still afraid 

of heights, grounding really, looking down, can’t see a thing 

You get some perspective, he said. Indeed. What the heck do I know about skyscrapers? 

I am a small-town girl; I dream little, or nothing at all

As a kid

would draw sun rays on my wallpaper;

They covered them with an old-ass pungent wardrobe.

Chain yourself to a stone, or perhaps, a tree, yes, a tree with yellow

dark-orange-heart-shaped marks of 

withdrawal

They say it hits you harder than lightning, another fancy word for enlightenment. 

1 in a million kind of thing

hiding inside an apartment like an attic “j” (spelled as “i”) woke-ghost

It’s life or death with a forest mosquito 

failing miserably, I promise it’s gonna work!

How do I know when it’s really over? 

‘cause it’s never when you do the leaving

What if it’s still buzzing deep in my ear, murmuring sound –

displaying affection in public, they all wanna be us, do I even…

Harder next time – you know I am asking for it: lovey-dovey for freaks!

Don’t forget your keys, you weirdo.

You fix toys, not love.

I must find 

comfort 

in the slow mornings, or something as simple as toast 

‘cause what’s left. When my twisted skin hits you like bricks –

You must protect your walls, or worse

You must prove your worth to invisible kings

‘cause what’s left. When it’s empty in the room –

once full of clothes, coffee mugs left dirty, and little half friendships

I could have done it sleepless and barely breathing 

abandoning the god of my own in the name of OURS

In the midst of oblivion – oversized hoodies for men 

hiding all the truthful jokes about life, death, and leaving

If I were to be gone, or worse

If I were to be honest, and stay

Would you be wearing my smell on your clothes? 

Would you look for comfort in ghosts? 

To see you crumble

To write a poem about the first time I cried in your kitchen 

To mirror your dry patches and blurry faces, fading

To notice the lights on and sob on the sidewalk

To buy something yellow 

a bunch of flowers, a slowly-eating-your-way-to-my-heart birthday card—think sunshine

Or call you a coward 

Doesn’t look like I am having fun? I guess I am not.

To answer the phone that never calls, call the phone that never answers, unless something bad has happened: do you remember the bitter taste of

coffee on the second day after? For me, it was…the slightly burnt toast, and the stupid cheerful

“what an asshole” (no, he’s not, but what would you know about loss)

To write a poem about the time I cried in your kitchen, whispering vows

To hear the slam of a door that never closed

To unlove you with a stranger on a windowsill of a russian panel building; repeat it 3times,

so no one dies.

To weep out my leather tears while I sip from your old-fashioned; unless you stalk me on the internet, no longer own a tub, and my oven is electric. The roofies wouldn’t help, only give me a headache. 

To write a poem about the time I cried in your kitchen – hits home, I thought; to watch you crumble.

Tell nothing

Just sit with me in silence

Do nothing

Just let me feel your mess

It caught me off guard

with my hair undone

In my bleached underwear

Before I washed my face 

In my dark play-act bathroom

In my empty play-act home

Look away

remember me crumble

say I am making myself cry

Blame me for my loneliness

and rest your head on my belly 

In the last moment, close your eyes

then shut the door in my face 

and when you go

I beg you—stay gone!

say 

You don’t remember

If anyone’s asking

say:

she was cold-hearted February

When I was August

say you were freezing 

When I was burning

say you’re better off alone

missed by 2 

minutes of stillness

a connection train

between two

strangers

I said

I miss talking to you

You said, “Any plans for the weekend?”

I said

I am afraid of you 

You said, “I am not that scary.”

And then; the metal box went rigid.

It’s only a matter of time

at home, you smell my long black hair on your shampoo – to cut off is to remember 

the riddance.

One of the strangers didn’t feel well; The conductor told us later. 

It’s not quantum physics: emergencies happen; you couldn’t have fixed it. 

I know you tried, though.

And sometimes that’s the reason why butterflies fly

They stick to the surface and never leave 

That one place or, 

that one person who is 

nothing but a sticky slice of melted murder, once in a while looking for mates, but never actually mating.

Getting sick of my trains 

missed

And calling me crazy later? 

There is grief, and then there is this

Nobody’s dead, but I think I might be little by little: what if she’s tiny and blonde?!

You’d miss my call if I ever tested the waters, still cold. 

You’d miss my silence if my absence meant something. 

I missed my golden boy, how could I not?

What if she’s true, or worse, what if she’s blonde?!

My grief has a name

green eyes

always right

never feels anything 

except for all the feelings there are

My grief hates being tickled 

quick to judge your lack of confidence in the absence of a trial, 

unless you pled guilty in an act of faith, or stream of consciousness; then it’s your loss!

I had a dream where I was 

still walking down that aisle 

despite daring all its crimes

 made in the name of self-love, or God, or someone almighty, unless

I was missing myself

Vile, on the other hand, wasn’t I?

My grief has a name

used to hide in my arms

from all that darkness there is

My grief has a name

and a record of not being ready

plays it nice until all that’s left is violence

My grief has a name

Except for all those days, it’s silent