"You Have Time."

"You have time."

They say

"You are still young."

But one day I won't be.

One day soon I won't be.

And then what?

And then what?

grief in reality // jay brooks

sometimes a poem is just a poem and sometimes a poem is actually a confession and sometimes a poem is a person and sometimes a poem is a cardinal. sometimes art is just art and sometimes art is actually therapy and sometimes it’s a pipe and sometimes it’s also not a pipe. 

sometimes the text is “got home safe!” and sometimes the text is actually saying i already miss the way your hair feels in my hands and sometimes the text is a warning and sometimes the text is thank you for caring. sometimes you are on the phone with your friend and you’re talking about curious monkeys but you’re also both admitting how lonely you are but you’re also both talking about how love can be a bicycle and sometimes it is not a conversation it’s an intervention and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s a poem and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s an art piece and sometimes it’s just a conversation but more often it’s holding hands without touching

& sometimes you are in an argument about the dishes but none of the things you are mad about are about dishes, they’re about the stuff around the dishes and the hands and the soap and how he smelled on sunday of another girl. sometimes the dishes aren’t even dishes they’re blankets and sometimes they’re burnt food and sometimes they’re your favorite book. sometimes the song isn’t a song sometimes the song is a manipulation and sometimes the song is just bad and sometimes the song is stuck in my head from you singing it in bed and sometimes it is “i listened to this so i could learn what you like” and sometimes it is “i showed you this because i want to also show you my palm lines and my heart and the inside of my head.” 

sometimes you are dancing alone but you are not dancing alone because you are picturing seeing her in a green velvet dress across the room from you, and sometimes you are dancing with ghosts, and sometimes you are dancing with your mother’s voice. sometimes it is not a dance it is a walk and sometimes it is not a walk it is lying in bed and sometimes it is not lying in bed, it is not-dying, which is often good enough for survival purposes. 

& sometimes you say  oh, take a cookie with you when you go and you mean that i should take a cookie and sometimes you mean - take me with you, also. sometimes it is just burning something and sometimes it is burning something and sometimes it is burning a lot of other things first. sometimes it is just a shirt and sometimes it’s what you wore when you kissed her and sometimes it’s what you wore when you didn’t kiss her and sometimes it’s what you wore to the movies when you saw your last in-theatres movie without knowing it would be your last in-theatres movie. 

& sometimes the poem is just a poem and sometimes the poem is my earring in your hand and sometimes the poem is your smell and sometimes the poem is calligraphy and sometimes the poem is good lord you are addicting and sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is unfiltered yearning and sometimes the poem is an anvil and sometimes the poem is - can i write a home, can you crawl in, can we be like little ferns, all curled up in bed. sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is a dance and sometimes the poem is saying - no, i will skip showering, if you need me there, i’m coming.

D • e • l • i • r • i • u • m

James & Cordelia

~

You shift in and out of focus.

When I catch your gaze across the night there is only streaks of gold.

Your breath a blur against my skin.

Your love a shadow.

~

I see you clearest in dreams,

In a feild of daisies.

There is a cliff,

But you hold on.

You hold on.

For some part of you trusts,

That I am coming for you.

You trust

That I

Am coming

For you.

And I do.

I am falling through the layers of the universe.

I am facing the possibility of the person I could become.

He does not look like he remembers you.

And this scares me most.

So I grip the hilt of my sacrifice

And shatter the mirror.

I am wounded a million time over with the flying shrapnel consequences.

There is darkness.

But I hold on.

I hold on.

For some part of me trusts,

That you are coming for me

That you

Are coming

For me.

And you do.

~

I left you stranded on a dance floor once,

Amongst a sea of spinning laughter.

I don't remember why I did that.

I don't remember what your face looked like when I turned away from you.

I remember...

You

My hands ghosting along your waist.

Phatom pain when we were palm to palm.

Your softly blooming joy.

Your wilting smile.

It haunts me still.

I don't remember why I did it, now.

But I would finish the waltz with you

If I could.

I would give you as many dances as you cared for.

If you would take my hand for them.

If you might trust me long enough,

To lead you through the steps again.

I promise,

I will not let you fall

Without catching you

This time.

~

I held all of you in my arms once,

Only to let you go.

I don't remember why I did that.

I don't remember how the walls were not engulfed by the flames consuming us.

I remember...

You

Dawn spilling from your edges as you overflowed.

Beads of light brimming where the stitches of us tore.

I remember...

Burning

Not minding if I turned to ash in your palms.

Smoked filled senses with nothing but you.

Your skin a wildfire.

You dance a story that flickers in your eyes like flame when you looked at me.

What I would give for you to tell me a tale again.

For your voice rustling my eyelashes.

~

When I read,

I catch the brush of your hair

In the flutter of every turning page.

I see you,

In the glimmer of light,

That catches on a drawn sword

In the sunset of battle.

I do not know why loving you is so easy

~

Excerpts from a James and Cordelia poem that has been sitting in my drafts for a while, thought I would share some parts before Chain of Iron comes out :))

I lost track of the wounds

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was the one you gave me

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was you

In the end

It was the betrayal that slaughtered me

Before the blood loss

When your eyes sliced into my soul

Puncturing the vital organ

I was dead before your blade parted flesh

Ghost before my body hit the ground

~

In the end

My final breath

An exhale of your name

That still tasted like home on the tounge

My blood forgetting to be afraid

In your familar palms

~

But if I am spirit

Why I am the one haunted?

By you

Or some part of you that perished

With me

Begging for mercy

I do not know how to grant you

~

And if you lived

Why did I find you

Haunting your own shell

When I returned to

Forgive you

~

~And Caeser Thinks: If Betrayal Is A Kiss, I am Glad I Tasted It Last From Your Lips

what if when icarus fell apollo caught him before he hit the sea, arms as warm as the sun, but safer.

what if when ariadne cast the rope across a broken branch aphrodite stepped in with a reminder that this, this is not the kind of love you die for.

what if when achilles was ready for war ares appeared with a smile and said “you win well when you win, but what are you unwilling to lose if you lose?” and achilles knew the answer.

if you could retell the tale wouldn’t you want to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you want to give them peace, even love, where you could?

l.s. | I AM TIRED OF RE-WRITING TRAGEDY WITHOUT CHANGE. LET THEM LIVE. LET THEM LEARN. LET THEM LOVE © 2016