the slow art of breathing bitter

Oneirataxia

You don't go out often,

except on some opaque blue occasions—

a friend's tanned birthday, an off-white book fair, a silver star's death.

You stand in one corner, smile softly, and close your eyes.

Daisy, Lily, Grey—high school—red and white.

Your heart beats softer; the roses shiver.

Stealthy kisses, hushed love, peppermint candy—a tangled blur.

The last time you thought of it, you cried.

But this time, it felt like an early sunflower bloom.

You wear the same shirt on every occasion;

They say you're boring.

Do you care? Like, ever?

The petal flutters in the late-summer air.

Your eyes say something—

something rare yet profound. Ocean waves.

I feel that whenever you stand by the sea;

A deep inhale of the salty air,

A mirage of untouched memories of her,

A sudden weight of guilt and melancholy. (Maybe void, too.)

Her memories, tucked safely on the back page of the book;

A song plays low—gentler than her last caress.

Did you love them? Like, ever?

You got a tattoo after you

came to this new town;

A little flying bird between your index finger and thumb.

We both don't know the reason.

Perhaps, you've wished to,

or maybe you don't know why, as I don't.

I only know its name, Phoebe.

Does it remind you of her? Like, ever?

Wine spills from yellow pastels.

It's fall now.

Dimly-lit stories line up my bare arms

like winter streets in the afterglow.

There's a lot to say, a lot to explain, and a lot to fight about.

I can hear sharp voices outside my heavy curtain;

A protest or something—

I'm too tired to go out and check.

Everything's back again, all of them, but it feels so wrong.

You write to her in moon letters and black stars.

She's still here, you think, sitting on the edge of the bed.

The coffee's stale, the ladybug's early, and everything's wrongly perfect.

Life's never been the one to follow the rules.

Time's never been the one to give you another second.

But she did—she was everything you thought would never happen.

My world's under the bluish haze of September;

Flowing news in the gust of wind

beneath me; my night's my