Bruised Dreamers

The city, I think
Is like a scar
Ra(z)ised from the supple earth of what was
Or
What might have been
Creeping in between the strangled dreams cradled in her palm
History slops from between the fingers down back through cracks in the sidewalk
Hosting weeds that only grow with each passing year
Slithering across unhealed ground
I can map the city
Not in streets, but in experiences
That I know better than lines on the very palm of my hand
In potholes that draw you in, marring
The hunger that thrives amongst dilapidated buildings
And snapshots of moments too fleeting to capture
Those that burn in my mind each time
The city raised me on biting winds and sunsets seen from what once felt like the top of
The world, but
People change when torn away by the skin of their teeth
And the city doesn’t forget
Vast enough to hold her scars and your own
The hum of life in the broken streetlight tells you
Stories of those that never lived to see its dawn
That echo below the overpass
Where wind rushes in my ears hair whips across my face
This city has broken my heart so many times it drips out of my hands
Broken promises a haze so thick I choke on it
Yet I’ve made a home in the yellowed grass
Whispering my secrets into the sidewalk cracks
Knowing one day, they will be purged
Whispered in the ear of another bruised dreamer raised in
This city
Because in light of it all
The city reminds me,
She’s raised each lost child
Scarred and bruised,
Lost beaten and bloody
She’s
Chewed them up and broken them down
And still the dreamer
Cradled at the curve of her breast
Paints her with
Hope

 

Red Giant

I want.
Like never before
Or perhaps like every single time
Convincing myself I didn’t when
She.
Holds galaxies in the palm of her hand
Stretched against the stars
We map each one
And maybe these aren’t the true stories of constellations
But these thread my soul
And I didn’t believe until I saw them in her eyes
Planets in the dips between her fingers
Impossibilities, eternities
All slows to
Here
Now
Where her skin glows in the cold
Wind blowing her back to me
I want the galaxies of her palm in mine
Encapsulating her hand gently
Colliding in a finite space
Her curls captivate me as much as, no, infinitely more than the expanse of stars above
our heads
Lines of her body spell out a history I
Had never tasted at any desk
She
Speaks of binary stars
Gas giants, moons, black holes
So entranced with them that we
Might have been a red giant from the beginning