I’m beginning to wonder
if you and I,
if we –
have acquired something
akin to a poltergeist.
I hear there are ghosts upstairs,
dancing in your rafters.
I think there are skeletons in my closet,
gnawing at the bones.
I can still feel you here,
past this dark omnipresence.
A shining beacon of hope,
one I can’t seem to find
amongst all the cobwebs,
I still have the first poetry book I ever received, dated all the way back to my childhood. I think my dad got it for a couple of cents at a garage sale. It had someone else’s handwriting on the inside, along with various check marks next to the previous owners favorite pieces. (I read those ones first, we didn’t have the same taste.)
Coated was he, in blankets of dreary misery.
Dripping with that solemness,
the kind you could only find at the bottom of
a bottle, screwed shut so tight,
you never really could get it to open
I asked, sullenly, from across my low self-esteem, ‘Would you care for a drink?’
The syrup is stronger come nightfall.
The price of the vice much higher.
Wine and liquor, never sicker.
The years flew by for me as mere minutes,
and I spent all of them idled in a tipsy stupor.
I forgot what your face looked like,
but my memory of you is still the same,
You and I split off from the rest of the word. We held each other’s hands and with a sense of pride, commenced the masses, and saw it fit to survive. I saw the map of a plan highlighted in your eyes, you know. I saw those warm mornings spent blanketed in rays of blood-orange sunshine. The late evenings spent tipsy off one another’s kiss. Those dark, midnight hours, which vanished to minutes and then to seconds, while I spent them all tangled in the scents and throws of your love.
I knew you were mine from the first day I saw you,
my only worry,
was if I was yours,
– BIATA, ‘lgbtq’
in my mind,
aging it like a
Will there come a time
when I’m able?
Or at least
– BIATA 🍷
How lovely it must be to have
your ink permanently set to the
margins of a page.
Your syllables tattooed forevermore,
amongst the wisps of soul,
and celluloids of pressed bark.
All of those little intricacies found
bound in the binding of a book.
I would have flesh and bone,
and most of all, a voice.
Your soft constraints
bind me to the outline of a letter.
I’m flipping through your index,
in search of some form of clarity,
a code of ubiquitous certainty.
I don’t know how to please you.
Our languages cannot coexist.
For I speak in bridges,
and you, in barriers.