This summer passed away quietly

and without a clue

brick walls still holding

onto the heat like

bodies just after sex

hoping that it doesnt get

too cold.

too soon.

writing on the walls

I lose words sometimes

in her eyes explanation

for the absence of our 

second natures; 

she says we are all just 

creatures of habit in our 

darkest thoughts, coming undone.

I left the days out of order

and hoped you could

reassemble the calender

in your hearts native tongue.

out of time.

you left the roots there

half in and half out

an imaginations worth

of doubt and coldness

heavy like anchors

in the hearts of the dead.

we're all affected

cutting the fog with

knives drawn on our hands

in crayon and stuttering

like children in the moonlight

dragging blankets and

looking for a way to go home.

the circuit is cut.

I spent most of today trying to silence silence.

so leave the balance to me.

and put me back where you found me.

in the shade and

out of breath

keeping the wolves at bay.

the words felt soft and smelled like cocoa butter.

she woke up and 

it was still dark. 

over my shoulder

the clock beside 

our bed mumbled 

something inappropriate 

and shook off our advances

for knowledge and closed 

its eyes in defiance. 

in language spoken like a synaesthesiac she said "I dream in minimalism."

There are gestures

in these hands

taken out of

context and left

out in the cold.

Paragraphs left

fractured and cutting

into the lines of

my palms to be read in

dimmed lamps light,

telling a future

that no one really

wants to hear. So,  I

took the steps two

at a time and found

the door locked, the next

few hours finding me

rearranging the words

and hoping to wipe the slate clean.

patterns of speech.

she speaks 

to me in 

a tone

best described 

as bedroomed,

hushed

and rich with

paphian desire;

her idiolect

clamoring for

attention

like her eyes do

when they 

hold me like

heavy lidded 

tractor beams

at 2:51 am

lips parted with

information

that she keeps

to herself

like a secret recipe

that she will let me

taste but

never understand.

I went to war and balked

at the lack of reasoning

I am thankful that I have

been given back my words.

"I am ripping cables out of me. and finding that I am still electric."

coy.

she came back

with darker eyes

and less to say

no matter how many

questions I asked

about the other side

and how bright

it may be

she just turned her

head and smiled

with the side I could see

and shrugged through

what could have been

a sob, or a giggle.