(Source: skeletonisland)

I’ve learnt you like a floodlight a certain distance avoids 

setting off, but on my porch this evening,

there you stand —

smaller than I remember 

wielding a bouquet of fuck you flowers /

the “why” of it how easy, how deadly the “why now”

Last time we spoke, I meant what I said

but I didn’t say what I meant and anyway,

I know how angles matter to you —

four or five degrees and you’re lost,

so I let you inside /

feign oblivion at your choice

of necklace

The refrigerator light comes on as a headache 

when I offer you a glass of milk /

we both know it reminds you of me in winter

spilled over your sheets —

when we became, paper folded, then cut,

a snowflake

I attempt a joke and you sound like a laugh track

played to mask the fact 

an audience doesn’t react / an asterisk settles 

between us &&&

side roads develop from shortcuts we’re using

to avoid sentences

involving time,

involving literary terms with uncertain 

pronunciations, involving the last occasion                               

our stupid lips stupid touched

Finally, you begin stranding all your information

onto my coffee table like a firearm

your hands in view / when I interrupt —

tell you I’m seeing someone 

You ask if that’s been nice, but I don’t respond

because ice cream is nice 

and so is blueberry pie / plus, who wants to write a poem

without the letter a?

But this is all a little late //

Now I taste blood in your words 

I suppose it was boiling and you had nowhere left to put it, 

but I’m so so sorry — if we’re practicing erosion,

it’s my turn as weather 

I see lightning and start a tongue counting

down to thunder / that counting that says,

I am this far I am this close

but all I hear is an evening’s worth of never

If this were Paris, might everything work out?

Have I / you / we become a foreign country?

After all, screaming was a tourist in our dialogue —

you could have guided it 

Yes, I was jealous of the glass you then threw

I wanted you to hit me so badly 

I wanted to be the instantaneous diaspora 

across the hardwood 

I suppose Freud’s truly got everything on me

And I know we labeled that autumnal night

hate sex 

but when you thought I’d fallen asleep,

you kissed my cheek and whispered

what I won’t write here / your chandelier curls

spilling over my arms,

leaving signature quilts from the burning inflections 

And I expect you will tell me how much I have misunderstood

and poorly assumed in these descriptions —

but darling, you tore a door

off its hinges last night to see me / its wood rotting 

like the aftermath

of this thing that’s destroyed us both

And this poem should have ended there,

but I was always shit at walking away 

from poetry —

yourself as a prime example

"Let’s admit, without apology, what we do to each other."

Richard Siken

(Source: remuslupinly)

leave kanye for me