The last 3 letters of the spring

Open the window
The air is forcing remembrance 

Do some laundry:
whites, black and colours piled carefully 
faulding—towels to towels, 
a bunch of lonely socks, sweaters, gym clothes—coping mechanisms of a broken home 

I can pretend I know how it goes 
If I open the windows
and give the plants a shower
If I wipe clean the cupboards
and then scrub the oven
All of this just for a second of justice 

A milk-white lie saying:
The overwhelm of an early flight 
I think I am not gonna' make it
Tell me again how fascinating I am
The overwhelm of an early start; too early
sooner than you’d admit 
I’ll move to another country 
You won't even know 
You'll say to yourself
"she just left"

The silence? It’s been quiet, and the truth? It’s been coming, and the light? It’s a warning, and the life forgiven? It’s been reaching, and the nights? Nights are tender, and love? Love is grieving, and the loss? Loss is nothing if there isn’t hope, no meaning, clueless anguish of them, dreamers, playing cowards, kissing faces greener-greener, spelling cheeky tendons, and the fingers, getting closer,

do not go

Do not surrender, tell me more, and the softness? It’s been muffled, and the truth? It’s been silenced; it’s a message: you've been summoned, and my feet counting the blues, and the fingers cutting paper, and my love, my love is steep; all the way, down to those circles

getting closer, I’ll surrender

Do not look behind her eyes, days are counted, catch a glimpse of the youthful sparrow— vulgar stare of hope, loss is nothing if there isn’t

Clueless sorrow: bones and joints and feet, oakmoss heavy, manly figure greener-greener, deeper, my breath weakened...could you please? all the way towards those circles

She’s been summoned, bird psychotic, deadly grasping to its fall: wasteful habit
It's worth nothing, and there wasn't any meaning
time has stopped

I say I have nothing to say, then I proceed…
saying
more
but as in
rage-cleaning my bathroom
at 2 am 
‘cause honey
I remember the things you did
and the things you didn’t

The story is as old as the world
the saddest ever
one-way ticket
I love you 
But It is not enough aka I wanna fuck my coworker 
we play tennis together you won't even say fuck out loud

Choose your words wisely
The pervading ones linger
like a german shepart guarding 
the sheepfold
and where is the soul in this mess of a friendship, my love?
A code word for losing feelings
as if feelings were ever a reliable standing point

I should find myself one of those
a nice guy or something—they say that’s the pick of manhood
It’s just
I am obsessive, compulsive, and crazy
In the older days, they were calling it love

How many more obviously depressing, obnoxiously picket white fences do I have to set on fire? 
As in rage-writing a novel about 
all the things you apparently never really wanted (thanks for the headsup)
but it’s ok, my darling
I am good at making up stories 
I know your intentions were good
and you’re FINE anyway
It’s just
I’ve been writing a novel about all the things you weren't ready for
It says I love you
like a million times
It lingers
It lingers

my touch
unworried
first time seeing clearly after years of blindness
I remember it all started as a joke
shapeshifting as a way of hiding
A very tall girl
blindsided by the spotlight
easiest thing ever
making you feel cool

my touch
unworried even when
yours…
<sinking feeling>
shallow
mirroring your broken childhood
made me feel worthless
mirroring my broken childless efforts to please a small giant

growing up too soon
looking up to someone who’s chasing "experience" 
foolishly worshipping the spotlight
giving up virtue
burnout days of the youngest daughter going to war for her man

I’ll mother some more
feelings of sonder
I’ll father some more
touches unworried
saudades:
for the boy performing 
longing

the strokes; the Wednesdays; the stockings; the warm water; the sign of my teeth on your skin; the red is dry; the playlist 15; the date 15; the seven…all of the men you don’t mind touching me; the witch: the floral dresses; the long hair; the vanilla body milk; the nudes; the lace underwear; the weekly reviews; the slow eating; that apartment; that bed; the serenity; the Sunday mornings: the yoga studio across the street; the creepy dolls are seen from your window; the yellow flowers; the home-made dinners; my mispronounced words and your perfect English; the burned pancakes; your plants it’s a jungle now; my never-ending movie list; the 2am drunk kiss on the Charles bridge; the something sweet; the habits: the good, the bad, the boring, the weird; the closed blinds; the nightmares; the I need to see your face; the delayed flights; the bro and all of the unfinished; I locked myself out again; the don’t forget the keys; the parsley in your fridge; the head: the intimacy, the ownership, the lust, the greed, the rawness, the open windows, my loud noises; your hangovers; my late, slow mornings; all of the things you said you need to do with your life: my poems, your hoodies, my pillows, the little kiss of my shins; my hide your bitches, your she’s on her way to me; your I am still here; your we’ll figure it out; your you have me; the june: the black, the white, the blue, the boring, the weird…a scrunchie. 

If it smells like lemons
bitter and cold 
If it looks like lemons 
sun-coloured nipple-dry “thanks for the cab”  I'd say
when the yellow-haired-love-of-my-life
wants me kneeling at the bottom of his pelvic bone
Or, 
Perhaps 
The sound of them hooves brought me back to a land of hope 
It smelt like lemons 
stinging feeling
might bite!

It looked like lemons 
sun-coloured nipple-dry orange-like 
but lemons
...

It's my turn to play coward
Run away and hide my bones
Just to kiss the face of a scarifying Casper
playing a crowd—he was too
just a boy once
forgotten by fate

Or, at least
stay there 
where there is no sign of death or gravestones
in between
How dreadful of me to get horny for a ghost
I think about you often when I...