atlas
echoes to the waters edge,
no fractured beauty in the
luminous lost in love.
from ridge
to crest
to flume, 
the olive in my skin
flutters.
veins
rust,
ripple,
and glimmer.
this deadened
parcel
coppers. 
dock your heart to mine
as we expire,
muted.

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to grieve is to know love intimately.

to pluck his voice from a crowd,
though I've not heard it in years.
to reminisce about my fingertips
reading his calloused hands like braille
and finding my next breath in every tactile.

to recognize any morsel of his being
in any dimension
and pledging patience to the search
in every lifetime.
to finding him.
and knowing he is ever present.

...

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binding my roots to the earth 

is a sacred therapy.

my soul recognizes it

as muscle memory.

this holy walk on eternal plank,

brushing elbows with the grey

while i claw to escape my skin.

a draw of breath into infinite abdication,

bleeding out in memory.

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I was ready made for grief.

to live an ode to a common thing,
     this elegy to peace.

and on the days that I feel nothing,
     I torment the stillness behind my eyes
because feeling is proof of living.
and I so badly want to be alive.
     to dig deep in the scar garden,
     to excavate my hollow pit,
     to sow a lifetime of memories
     of being just out of reach.

it is my...

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