triptych #1

I. When your fingers have traced the spirit who/which lingered about you and when all your tongues have been tied begin the fall. When in a vacuum remember a poem is read silently. A hearse for the hoarse. It does not really matter at all: your poetry is good only because you wrote it.

II. We laid together as driftwood on tides of insecurity, as icebergs seeking home. Paradoxically we may have craved warmth. This is our latest trend. We trade time for sands and bury ourselves in blankets, bedsheets, waiting to drown. You toss and turn and asked me about the millions of sharks hunting for company. I instagrammed a photo of our latest demise. Hashtagged it with love. Yes, we are in sync.

III. The words we left said and lying in the dirt have gotten up to leave. The space between us fills still. We are left behind. We are unwritten poems. We are silent vowels. We are the memoirs of icebergs, the unfolded blankets, the ruffled bedsheets. We have lost our selves, ourselves.