I found my body in a field of celandine.
It was the darkest time of night, and above me the black sky swelled and breathed in conversation with the damp earth on which I lay unmoving .
In all directions past my fingertips the spindling colorless flowers seemed to stretch past to the end of everything,
a broken record scene of a million grey-black shadows to the edge of the existence.
Twisting my aching body to the left I noticed the wild flowers parted like two seas by a narrow gravel road that extends past my line of sight.

A Siren’s voice met my consciousness. The hum moved not beside the wind, but within it. My bare feet grazed the heavy star and I stood parallel to the unmoving trail from which it came from.
I was vaguely aware of the wind forcing the flowers around my ankles to bend and contort their fragile bodies to the tune of the quiet song that floated across the stones, and wanting to join them.

Before I could begin to expect it, a battered Chevy blurred my vision
and in the headlights
I could see you standing on the other side,
the color of some strange collection of moonlight and cheap fluorescent.
Your hair came alive around your face in illuminated wisps, caressing your freckles and kissing your skin with the fragility and urgency of the night.

And in that fraction of a second, part of me felt sorry for the city. And yes, I knew that was clich√© but you invented cliches, didn’t you?

You were the prettiest thing the world’s never seen.
I wanted more than anything to paint the stories in your eyes
but if a picture is only worth a thousand words,
killing the novels that are written in the shiny part of your irides would be a crime.

The stranger left in a rush of sound and dust and left us again
to exist alone in the uneasy peace.
I tried to push my body across the gravel, trudging every step
but I could not grasp even your aura.
There was glass and grey tape and a matrix of walls surrounding you
and this gravel was a judge, as unfeeling as you.
I hurled my shaking bones at the void between us, throwing one last glance at the silent observing moon above us as my consciousness moved on without me.
I found myself gripping my bed sheets.


Cemetery Drive (Reflections From a Stranger’s Tombstone)

cemetaryDid they buy you flowers?

The ones growing from the damp black earth below me are beautiful. They’re violet, the type of color if I stared at just long enough I could lose myself in. I always loved violet. It reminds me of strange dreams and bad dancing and things that don’t matter to you now. Things that did matter.

Now,¬† as I’m running my dirt stained fingers across the faded inscription, I feel more alone than I ever have. Once, I thought I felt the crumbling rock pulse under my touch, but the only thing beating in this dead city was my heart, I tied to this body and you to the decaying stone at your bedside.

I wish I could have asked you many things. I wish I could have asked how it felt, leaving this beautiful, cursed place.
Free of these vacant people in their crowded homes and the open palms you never reached.Or, how it felt leaving people that made you feel like art and smokestack memories of impossible nights that made you feel infinite. Did you mourn them as they mourned you? Maybe you left with less regard and more finality, some dramatic exit. The performance you never auditioned for.

Or, it was nothing.

Just holding on with white knuckles for so long, and finally letting go.

Someone once told me we are made of stars. Fragments of dust and far away galaxies behind the freckles and our dreams and everything that makes us human.
I like to think your soul is home, with the constellations watching these flowers grow from what you gave to this earth.