we are astrologers
of bodies and mind
searching for truths
in each other’s stars

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she has no right.
no right to words,
no right to expression,
no right to feel.
not on this.
not on this theme,
not on this situation,
not on you,
no, not on you.

hell, how can she be allowed to have it
when she’s the one who created all these catastrophe?
she felt that panic.
yes, she pronounced those words.
she feels sad.
but how can she be sad when she had made you sad herself?
it haunts her–no doubt.

redundant phrase,
stupid feelings.
she is guilty,
but she feels lost.
and now she writes again.
have you noticed?
but only to recount personal narratives,
from a time spent feeling worthless.
when the panic still comes,
the tears still fall,
she still spirals,
and the constriction on her lungs returns ,
and she can’t breathe,
and she’s retching and –
she misses you.

it feels like a dirty phrase.
pathetic when she utters it.
who does she think she is –
a downer,
a disaster,
a disappointment.
ostracized because she is past-tense –
present no longer.
she knows the words,
those words uttered between cigarettes and bonfires,
while dark figures huddle in their coats and sip coronas.
she knows those words
without hearing them
because she has told herself, she tells herself
they are present, not past,
they come and go,
drift in and out,
visit and leave once more.
but they don’t abandon her.
they never abandon her.
they hover
in the periphery,
in the scrapbooks on her shelf,
in the shrouded box of photographs,
in the bear who still guards her bedside.
disappointed.
disillusioned.
feelings she can’t shake from her skin,
her hair,
her clothes.
it’s under her nails, she can feel it.
infiltrating her body, her thoughts,
and she is choking again
and at this point she can’t see the words she’s writing
because it’s a blur of tears and memory
and she just wants a word.
any word.

after such a time.
how can she have nothing to say?
she has a chest of letters.
it is buried, hidden.
she doesn’t want to see it.
she looked through once. sobbed.
carefully closed the lid and stashed it away and tried to forget.
but its presence haunts her.
because she remembers the words on those pages,
dutifully dated and saved so that she may one day surprise you
with a beautiful inked handwriting
but she never could bring herself to do it.
unaware of them still, you could never know,
but how to hurt you with “sorry” and “the right thing” and “change”
when so many heartful professions of everything remain there unread?
so she fills the silence with song that sounds of you.
connections real or imagined to kisses in the library,
nights on a trampoline under the stars,
tea in the car on the way to the station,
the glance of eyes in a pizza parlor.

she needs to know one thing though,
if she talks, will you listen?
if tomorrow she disappears, will you notice?

In the secret corridors of your heart
I have stood in the shadows
Between the sterile tools
And the filth of old age
Whispering ghost stories
About love

In days full of grace
And nights merciless with sorrow
There is the grief of knowing
That Life is beautiful
And Death is inevitable
We are particles
Of dust
Of electric blue light

I have stood in the shadows
Waiting out the storm
Conflicting with the norm
My stride weakening
As the days tumbled from one to the next

There has to be respite sometime
In the years that pass us by
Accepting and expecting
Whimsical winter mornings
The genesis of spring’s new cycle
Fleeting summer days
And autumn leaves falling on the hardening ground

I have stood in the shadows
And seen the crumbling walls
The unhinging doors of your heart
Knowing we are
Particles
Of dust
Of electric blue light

 

-Rosy Kay-

The Things I Could Do

at some point in winter,
you’ll tell yourself a lie.
you’ll say that you aren’t as good
as anything as you once were.

and even though you know it’s a lie,
it’s hard not to believe yourself.
when the only thing you’ve gotten better at
is telling the time between then and now.