We Could Have Had It All.

the lilt of quiet voices in the 
morning hush, 
breaths misting over hot tea, 
flushed skin cooling in the pre- 
morning dawn,  
the creak of hammocks: soft,  
and uncertain ‘til wakefulness hit,  
stories in the moonlight, 
warm palms slipping beneath 
your back on the edge of sleep, 
all the spaces in between, 
all the promise on my lips, 
all the calm of fluttering pages 
with my fingers in your hair— 
but you were afraid. 
K.N.O.W. 5.02.2017-5.31.2017 6.46 A.M. 

Return [It].

I feel the echo, of an echo, of an echo;

the hollow plop of a coin hitting water.


I have never learnt to reconcile myself with this aspect

of losing you–

the dimming of colour, the absence of everything, and nothing,

even as a loose abstraction of myself grows closer to

all the others who must now become the sum of these parts.


I do not understand this thing;

this feeling; or rather its lack:

I am only capable of seeing it in the near terrible, hysterical

unravelling I offer to others–

an unchecked giving as the unleashing of words,

a stream sourced through a dam cracked in too many places;

I see it in the empty way I fall asleep;

eyes shut,

body tensed in a tranquillity it pretends to feel,

while I remember the fullness, the sheer unfurling comfort

of formerly falling asleep to you:

the feeling of your t-shirt against my face, the pleasure of my

limbs stretched out languidly,

chest and stomach discovering the welcome stability of your own.


I have not learned to reconcile myself with this:

wanting us, but no longer wanting you,

even as my eyes linger on faces that remind me of yours,

hovering above necks like yours,

with the exposed, and nervous shift of an Adam’s apple,

the quick swallow of vulnerable things–

dead spirits, so very alive, they cause my throat to tighten,

and my thoughts to




before memories less kind step in.


You have been a part of me for so long, that I have forgotten how to live

without the intensity of feeling too much

even when the only reassurance I had of my love was my need to stay;

even when I doubted that my love for you had truly survived

the uneven tension of your unwitting abandonments

(how were you always so much more sure of my love than I?)


I would simply like it to stop:

this feeling of disconnectedness

as my heart tries to recall that other things made it happy,

made it feel,

made my teeth ache with anguish,

or the muscles of my always too-tense, too self-conscious body

liquefy with the sweetness of my contentment.


Whatever you have taken with you,

or whatever I have given you that now makes it all pale

as everything rings with a falseness that almost resembles futility,

I ask that you return it.


I dislike the ghosts of dead things.


K.N.O.W. Monday, January 23, 2017. 01:10 – 02:33 hrs.