I'm losing you
with no bandaids that camoflauge this kinda cut,
flaunt it with bold colors and streaks.

All I can do is apply pressure and hope nothing falls out
at an inapproriate time, watch my step and wait.
For health--which is what?
Lack of sickness?
The condition of being...
of being sober, and having pores
to let the toxins out,
of being stable so that
red means blood and stop and roses,
and blue means skies and oh your eyes
that still melt and pour down your skin
which was mine, I knew.
And now I lack. Like intelligence which was
sand that turns to mud and clumps when wet.
Brain cells are bursting,
not in volcanos but in cupped hands
as children tell secrets into soap and water
and hold their breath as they wait for it to pop.

For strength? Which is what?
The ability to hold my ground,
to clutch to it as it seems to be the only thing left,
as you walk on the same plane,
move in directions which I do and say
the same words that I would.
To appear happy and noncholant while scissors
begin to cut out the pieces of me which no longer fit--
but are still a part of me and therefore still exist...
somehow...mingeling...on the edge of a crumbeling clifff...
It is movement as force pushes against me.
It is making my own currents
and it is holding back the thoughts that make me sick.

And lastly, I wait for love.
Which shifts too absurdly.
Which is, what is, who is...
sunlight that filters through the blinds of a closed window.
Who may have already left, who might be waiting,
reading magazines and feeling their whole lives go numb
as their feet fall asleep and words they wish to say
never touch the airwaves, the sunlight they wish to feel
only touches the figure laying next to them in bed.
With their clothes in bunches on the ground.
It might be webbed, like a net.
It might be singular or it might be plural like a limitless equation,
it might be chalk, dusted and written on sidewalks and hosed away
or it might be ink, concealed into journals and embedded into skin cells.
I wait for it to become layered in paper and tangibility,
to blush into color and bloom into petals which I can peel off
and be able to say I had the center, I had the heart.

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