an apple bed

i wait and i count, through the last breath we take. through the silence that overrides. if it looks like winning you haven't been, bet it all. every cent. throw it all out on the table. for all the world to see. and all our sad songs will be lullabies in no time. in no time. i wait and i count.

all our shrines to long goodbyes, waiting out the end of time. unstoppable. with pennies in our eyes, in our minds, we're asleep in an apple bed. where the trees grow wild and wide. we've got time. all the time. all the time.

good is good.

good is good. no sign of evacuation, but i am both limber and capacious. good is good.

our ghosts are not cocoons

my heart is hanging in my throat, making it hard to breathe. i choke on every word. clones weren't meant for us. we've always been too big for our own bodies, for our own good. we barrel down into the ground, hundreds of meters, for all the world to find in thousands of years, when life as we know it has eroded into sand. crushed by the waves of receding tides. our roots, like bones, buoyant in only the stories they have to tell. don't you see? we're immortal. immortally meager. we always knew.

love hits us like meteors, unearthing everything buried deep within. impossible to quell with the swells of bittersweet bruises of crashsites. all the ghosts of wreckage. passing through us one last time. saying goodbye, as we say hello. love hits us like meteors, and exhumes everything lost before it. lost because of it. lost in spite of it. bittersweet.

i'll bury myself in you. we'll bury our own roots into the ground. immortal, you and me. married. elated. i'm elated. my heart is hanging in my throat, so hard to breathe. elation is so haunting.

the science of sound

all our footprints linger on. barely there echoes resounding the words and phrases and shouting and music we have been. and although we can't always find them, they are always there.

the forensics on our bodies can be so blinding if the science is ours. scars from guitars, cadence of chords we can't seem to navigate from. from how we couldn't imagine it to be in any other terms. even when we're long gone, the evidence will remain. souvenirs for you to frame and place upon your mantle. souvenirs for all the veneers you've barely carried yourself behind. lost amongst all the echoes of words and phrases and shouting and music.

we are scientists, but the science is against us. we are archaeologists and ultrasonographers and audiologists and seismologists. we see and hear and sense and feel the physics of love all around. it bears its weight down and barrels around in this science of sound and silence and treason.

with our gaits so heavy, all our footprints linger on. like the echoes resounding and resonating, but impossible to find or consign or resign or invite back home. yes, the footprints linger on beneath the pavements we are pounding, the mountains we have mounded and the voices we've become.