waxingluna

loving you was a kind of grief/
grieving you was a kind of love/
because i looked between my cupped palms
and saw my own beating heart

sometimes it comes to me
bathing in the starlight
when i'm thinking about
solipsism, sex, even
goddamn jordan peterson
"i should text j.
about that"
and then sudden hollow grief

it's funny.
i never even fucked you.
what wasn't/
now isn't.
how could that possibly hurt?

loving you was a kind of grief/
the grief i could not bear
on my sparrow shoulders.
the grief whispering in my ears/
you love him more than he loves you.

do you still want me?
i'll wonder, lavender in the shower.
do you think about texting me?
i'll wonder, lilac behind my ears.
obsession is only beautiful/
when it's returned/
my obsession keeps wondering/
if it's returned.

it's funny.
you said i caught you off
guard
that first night.
all illusion and sharpness.
i thought you would like
my unpeeled skin
my soft underbelly
the lush garden
surrounded by my body its ruins.

you looked/
you looked/
you looked away.

it's like
i had to shove the viscera
back in, had to reweave
my own peritoneum,
lock up all my love and grief
and fears and fragile, fragrant
hope
and throw away the key.

it's like i killed
a part of my own soul.

my own love
trickling out
my own thin fingers
trying to seal the cracks

as if my heart was a river
and you were the sea

it's funny.
i wonder if it hurts for you.
i half-wish it does
lest it's true that my own bones
didn't even graze your heart.