The last 3 letters of the spring

I don't want to talk
I have nothing to say
aside from
forgive yourself
forgive them
forgive me

Forgive the world for lacking honest tears and brave men, and 
the evenings for changing into bitter nights, 
and the mornings for still grieving the shadows

Forgive the bottles of wine 
emptied
for dragging your feet
shuffling 
bolting the door with my body, and 
my shirt unbuttoned 
drying out a call
the music for moving something—hollowed 
deeper inside
draining away my scent 
smell my hair when you hug me and let it sink 

Forgive the end of the world for never coming, and
all the empty chairs left empty when all you need is swarm

Forgive the voice of some reason 
any
for never penetrating the grit you’ve built yourself on, and
the rain for washing the traces of 3 summers, another 
stand-in lover
losing its ROOK

Forgive ME for arriving untimely
deprived of devotion
with my second-rate rawness
awaiting my turn to be given charity
despite my surrender
denying my drought

Forgive yourself for foolishly losing your battles while I was at war with myself
winning for both of us
giving up confidence, becoming dust through your fingers

Forgive tomorrow for never coming
proving not enough

Forgive my ugly thoughts for not being cleaner 

I’ll bleach them, I promise.

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, and
I laid next to you
kissing your arm
kissing your chest 
kissing 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 under 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?!