i heard

I heard you were seen hanging out with a very young woman in Basantapur. I wonder who.

I wonder how your face must have looked in the warmth of the evening sun as you walked alongside the young face, discussing philosophy and talking mysteries. I wonder if there’s gray on your face now, or other signs of aging. I wonder what takes you out of your cubicle where you sit, observing the world and battling it like a keyboard warrior. You once said one could destroy the world like that.

I wonder what it might be like if I had been there in your stead, walking alongside a younger man. Walking, talking about everything perhaps or just standing in silence. I wonder what they’d say about a woman like me with ‘loose morals’. A cougar. 

What could a woman like me say about morality? I wonder what a man like you would say about cloistered virtues. A man like you who believes in morality and nothing. Unlike a woman like me who believes in nothing and everything that is immoral. 

to the cockles of your heart

When we get to the part 

where we fight

I’m not up in arms 

But I close.  And

like cactus 

grow my defenses, as I turn into 

 liquid within.

And there really is nothing of us.

Because we/are me.

We are 

everything my mind has grown.

We are us:

fluid. Fighting shy of your nihilism. 

tearing

it would be easier
to come apart
altogether

this constant tearing
i cannot stand

i miss you

you are caught
in my breathing
like absence

veil

i crop my hair short in an attempt to look like a man. i want to learn to think like a man, so that letting go is all about not hurting.
i try to get a fringe, in imitation of someone who I think is loved. but my fringe is all wrong and crooked. my hair is wiry and thick. not silky and supple
i will never be who i am not
i am not a man
i am not the girl with the beautiful fringe
i will have to be content with who i am
i am the one you detest

start again

we've stepped into a new year again, with you and i apart.

some days i pray for these tears to turn to dust. for dust to cover me, so that i can't see you and you can no more find me.

some days, all i want is to touch your face again. sometimes, every moment is about wanting to see your face.

Final scene

I always thought our exit would be as graceful
as the first scene
you set the stage
on a day the sun was warm
and the rain wanted to batter us down
just a little bit
you exit on your own again
leaving me to my
own denouement.

By the sludge

The river is a sludge where we stand.
We lean against each other near its banks.
When no cars pass, you place your palm on the small of my back.
I lean in to draw your breath into mine.
The lights flash again and we quickly come apart.

The story of our lives.

your face

I feel as though your face is changing. i can't tell if it's the beard you're forgetting to trim or the anger in your eyes. But I feel like your face has started to change. Maybe I will soon be in your past.

break me down

what have i got to offer you

but this heart break?

faces

We are still doing it
-- staring at one another,
but wrangling now
instead of floating away into
nothingness
like we did the day we were
falling
          in love

I spot hints of grey
in your beard,
you ignore
the grey
in my pubic hair
--we're too old to pay attention
to small details now

we only remember
how we hurt
each other

The almost rains of New York

how strange to be sitting here in a room in Syracuse, staring at a twenty-storied building, as the clouds fleet over it, staring and bawling, because you have finally written

to say you can't stay

on a day of rain

We came home
on a day like this
when the sky was overcast
and heavy with tears

we came home
on a day
when the world was crumbling
because you and i could not gather
the fragments of each other

fumes

1.
all reason is lost

there is nothing

we are nothing

we are only fumes

burnt

of what was



2.
and as another day comes to a close,
i'm filled with you
like i am every minute of my life

"Die with me"

ellipsis

i wonder what you do with my absence.

i can never stand yours.

coffee for a broken-heart

this one from www.teamimhoff.com reminded me of a short story that has become mine:

i still make coffee for two...

hate song

am mad at you today.
am mad
because you do not see
what you are doing
mad
that you don't realize
this suffering you inflict on me
is yours too
mad
because
together
we made sense
until you decided to fling senses to nowhere
am so mad that you are doing this
when you know we have been
each others' torment
all these years

may you suffer
just like i suffer without you

lost lost

there was a time i came to these pages every day because some strange continent seemed to have swallowed you up.
i come here now because it is the only space where am still with you

Ghost

Henrik Aarrestad Uldalen

Haunt me




without

presence