Thirty-nine. (Version 2.)

I am putting dots on maps again.
I wish we were made out of the same material.
Cotton or stars, saltwater or redwood.
It would just be nice to know
that we came from the same place.

There is a crow in the street.
There are many cars coming.

In the bathroom, the mirror says
Look at you. Look at you.
Despite all the sleep,
I look like I've been punched in both eyes.

Thirty-eight.

Passion means that I don't know how to do anything half-way.
Of course I miss things. But things don't have to mean people.
Sitting on the edge of the tub drawing while he takes a bath.
Tracing constellations on thighs, shoulders -
every area of exposed skin open territory for exploration.
Laughing, constantly, across bridges and sheets
and snowbanks and kitchens at two in the morning.
At night, we never left any space, and I was happy sometimes.
Only sometimes, because I didn't get to say what I wanted.

This, all of this, doesn't mean that I'm in the wrong place.

There was always a light in my mouth
that I couldn't do anything about.

Sometimes it's as simple as walking into a new house
and choosing the room that lets the most sun in.
You are that room.

Thirty-seven.

You've been with him long enough
to know how he prefers
his morning coffee, bicycles,
afternoon weather, and women.

You go into the bathroom
and cut off your hair
because something here
needs to be removed.

Thirty-six.

I.
Then the birds I was painting stopped being birds. They turn into an argument of yellow blurs, the one that has become you exploding in blue light saying over and over, I understand, and the one that's me, flying lower and shouting But there are no words for this!

There are no words.


II.
I didn't want to come back here.


III.
Forget the next part. The rest of it has nothing to do with fucking but sometimes I want to say it because one day it was winter and someone tried to mess up my life. Which I would call unfair if fairness had anything to do with it, but it doesn't, because humans will be humans, which means humans will often be vile and callous and drag mud all over floors that don't belong to them. And then, life will move on. Life always moves on.


IV.
I do not always feel
the need to be a competitive woman.
But let's just say
that you were not the first
to know that his sheets
were the colour
of sangria.


V.
This is really nothing more than a poorly put together poem or prose or pouring pointing out that no matter how many times you say it, we're still on the opposite sides of the fence. Grass versus dirt, white versus eggshell. To put it in more simple terms, I spend more nights alone than not.


VI.
How many times
can you say,
No?

Thirty-five.

I'm knee-deep in adorations
and my hair has been turning white
for a year now. I haven't yet learned
how to sleep well next to him.
I wake up often, too hot and then too cold,
from dreams that make no sense or
perfect sense or backwards sense
or beautiful sense. Sometimes
he calls me darling and I let it echo
a bit before I say something back
that disrupts the syllables swimming
through the air. I worry,
like mixing honey and sea salt;
a wooden floor that kisses your soles
and warns that it could drop away
at any given moment.

Thirty-four.

March 8th, 2009. 11-something pm.

What if I was lost at sea?

---

March 9th, 2009. 3:26 pm.

You were both snow and stars.

Thirty-three.

I do not believe in rivers that swell
with affection or tides that are governed
by faith. Sometimes a line is just a line,
with no intersecting point
or mathematical equation
driving it ahead. But maybe
I want your fingerprints all over me.