it’s cold here, and quiet.
I’m sitting with my legs crossed,
gazing at my hands–
wondering if they’re too soft now, I suppose,
to rebuild walls, to turn locks
and slip keys surreptitiously down my throat again.
it’s cold here.
the wind is blowing softly,
clean over my face. it’s a little raw,
picking gently like curious infants
at the open spaces on my skin.
and i’m thinking…
and i’m thinking.
i wanted you to be here.
when I folded up inside myself again– because that can’t be avoided–
i wanted you to be there with me, tucked in the crevices of me
until your ink stained my canvasses and we made Pollock splatters
on the television screens of the cinema of life;
i wanted you to be here when i shut down again.
i think i hoped you’d start me over
all i know now is I let you in too far; I gave you too many keys,
and knocked down the walls you couldn’t break.
tell me something, my darling:
what do I do now with the empty fields you left behind,
where the winds blow so clean and sweet and softly now?