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The House June 23, 2014

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I found a house ten stories high 
I softly, silently slipped inside 
The rooms were empty, the walls were bare 
except scrawled signs everywhere:

“Turn around. Go away
 There are no rooms here today.”

Room after room, no one at all, 
but the same words on every wall. 
I touched the floor; still was warm. Someone certainly was here before.

 I need a room please. May I stay? Not today, child, not today. 
you surely see, I’m ill prepared for company.

 I’ll wash the windows, unboard the doors, 
paint these walls, mop the floors. 
Or if you’d rather, I’ll make you tea, we can be, just you and me. 

No child. Not today. Can’t you see I like this way?
 There’s only room for one, that’s me. Go away. Let me be. 
So I called out; no answer came. 
I left no trace, except my name.


Teach Me June 21, 2014

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Teach me how to unlace every finger from your own,

Unwrap my thighs from your hips,

as I try to pull the strands
 of memories and plans
from all my images of you.
Teach me how to a navigate a life where you are captain.
With all the tributaries I have carved into days entwined with yours,
 teach me how to draw back, empty my thoughts, then try to reroute
 around the trenches that I only wish to fall into.
Teach me to dream again from inside a cave
 instead of the stars.
Teach me to stand again, to hear music,
to hear anything other than my own grief blasting through my skull
then settling into my chest
before suffocating my very desire for anything
but you.
Or, teach me how to love you, again.