gods-chariots

[gods-chariots]

Tap to download.

I remember letters, voice messages, pictures, and videos.

We existed nowhere whole, but between the lines of poems, lyrics, and conversations,

in a plane of code and pixels where I didn't have touch to remember you by.

We hid each other there.

Segments parallel to each other’s lines, rushing, electrocuting. 

I used to hope just not to lose you, but toward the end hoped to keep you somewhere with a pulse, inside my chest, so when you sent me your voice, you spoke from within me.

I am reminded of how similar I am to the machine that bridged, limited us.

I had signed up to become it, become preordained for confinement,

and it was my soul that became desperate

to disrobe my flesh and bone and reveal the metals, glass, and wires that puncture the heart pumping pleas to exist differently, someplace else.

There, under the tree breaking the pavement, scribbled with the aging marks of slides and flips.

In the field of the fenced airport. Along palm trees. Outside your window,

where we would gift each other cities, skies, trips.

Why did I pretend I felt nothing for the picture 

of the scatter of toys and strollers around your feet,

your gentle company, long kinks of hair stark against the pin-straights of your baby brothers?

How could I keep in my throat the erupting ache to be there? To show you, really try to show you how much I wished we could be next to each other? Why didn't I? Why couldn't I? Why couldn’t I break the language of grit and grudge and guilt and find a way to reach into you through clicks, keys, scrapped files of pictures with slow shutter speeds, under that palm tree, make you look me in the eye and feel my palm?

Why was I a machine then, but when temper was lost, and you were dead to me,

and I was remembering other people by what I could not remember you by,

and when you found out, you wished to hurt me, and you intended to inflict pain on me,

why was I real? Why am I human when I miss you, hate you, when I want you gone?

Why did I care about being real only when we hurt each other for it? When I condemned you for showing what I couldn’t? When you spat at me for it? I did not know what any of it meant, and I still do not.

Why do I care about being a real girl for you now only when you have found someone there? Your true heart beats for them, and while I prayed to soothe you in the muscles of mine, I only hear myself from a silent ringer. I am a bar in a panel and bubbles of text and dropped calls.

I miss stitching what I remember. I remember tender offerings of comfort from across the world that I am glad never have been fulfilled,

for if I smelled you on your corpse bride jacket and saw your fingerprint on the ruby pendant, I would die.

Images, letters—they were enough. They were too much and too little. I feel like you would have loved to take care of me in images and letters. Look at me in tilts and pans. Find me in code and clouds. Love me in ones and zeros. You said you love me when I told you how you miss home when you I can't remember which was only something you would have said I can't remember from learning your brightness,

that harsh gratitude that translated far more profound than a wild, extrinsic, real life end. What I remember is how much I bled for you and how much guilt I harbored. I remember clearly all the violent wishes and bouts of painful anger.

We were always relieved to be okay and crawl and grip the phones that called and rung, no matter how unresolved, how futile. I thought it wasn't. For a couple of days. I could've done it. I could've become more. I felt it. I love you.

I remember us saying not to say it, but it always came back, so let us have had it.

Let us have had the privilege to have loved within the confines of screens,

through rushes of wired bolts of lightning, survived by millions of deleted letters, voice messages, pictures, and videos. I lie headless there where it all is. Thank you for knowing we are alive.

#poetry #poem #writers on tumblr #prose #writerscommunity

[gods-chariots]

Tap to download.

I remember letters, voice messages, pictures, and videos.

We existed nowhere whole, but between the lines of poems, lyrics, and conversations,

in a plane of code and pixels where I didn't have touch to remember you by.

We hid each other there.

Segments parallel to each other’s lines, rushing, electrocuting. 

I used to hope just not to lose you, but toward the end hoped to keep you somewhere with a pulse, inside my chest, so when you sent me your voice, you spoke from within me.

I am reminded of how similar I am to the machine that bridged, limited us.

I had signed up to become it, become preordained for confinement,

and it was my soul that became desperate

to disrobe my flesh and bone and reveal the metals, glass, and wires that puncture the heart pumping pleas to exist differently, someplace else.

There, under the tree breaking the pavement, scribbled with the aging marks of slides and flips.

In the field of the fenced airport. Along palm trees. Outside your window,

where we would gift each other cities, skies, trips.

Why did I pretend I felt nothing for the picture 

of the scatter of toys and strollers around your feet,

your gentle company, long kinks of hair stark against the pin-straights of your baby brothers?

How could I keep in my throat the erupting ache to be there? To show you, really try to show you how much I wished we could be next to each other? Why didn't I? Why couldn't I? Why couldn’t I break the language of grit and grudge and guilt and find a way to reach into you through clicks, keys, scrapped files of pictures with slow shutter speeds, under that palm tree, make you look me in the eye and feel my palm?

Why was I a machine then, but when temper was lost, and you were dead to me,

and I was remembering other people by what I could not remember you by,

and when you found out, you wished to hurt me, and you intended to inflict pain on me,

why was I real? Why am I human when I miss you, hate you, when I want you gone?

Why did I care about being real only when we hurt each other for it? When I condemned you for showing what I couldn’t? When you spat at me for it? I did not know what any of it meant, and I still do not.

Why do I care about being a real girl for you now only when you have found someone there? Your true heart beats for them, and while I prayed to soothe you in the muscles of mine, I only hear myself from a silent ringer. I am a bar in a panel and bubbles of text and dropped calls.

I miss stitching what I remember. I remember tender offerings of comfort from across the world that I am glad never have been fulfilled,

for if I smelled you on your corpse bride jacket and saw your fingerprint on the ruby pendant, I would die.

Images, letters—they were enough. They were too much and too little. I feel like you would have loved to take care of me in images and letters. Look at me in tilts and pans. Find me in code and clouds. Love me in ones and zeros. You said you love me when I told you how you miss home when you I can't remember which was only something you would have said I can't remember from learning your brightness,

that harsh gratitude that translated far more profound than a wild, extrinsic, real life end. What I remember is how much I bled for you and how much guilt I harbored. I remember clearly all the violent wishes and bouts of painful anger.

We were always relieved to be okay and crawl and grip the phones that called and rung, no matter how unresolved, how futile. I thought it wasn't. For a couple of days. I could've done it. I could've become more. I felt it. I love you.

I remember us saying not to say it, but it always came back, so let us have had it.

Let us have had the privilege to have loved within the confines of screens,

through rushes of wired bolts of lightning, survived by millions of deleted letters, voice messages, pictures, and videos. I lie headless there where it all is. Thank you for knowing we are alive.

#poetry #prose #writing #letter #uh #e-dating is bullshit #none of it makes sense #none of it is real #so why is the pain real #why does it hurt #i don't usually write like this #but this is very personal #it's weird but i want to share it #i love you #thank you