your music make me sad

i can lay in my bed and trace
the way from the train station
to your heart
and every time i think about it
it i break apart

without a mouth to speak the words
i want to

sing to me in dreams
my hair across your pillow
kisses at the seams sunken to stains
i want the taste of your skin
hunger from the bottom of my mind

without a mouth to speak the words
i want to

can't give myself the option
of opening my mouth
don't want to see or say
what might come out

can't give myself the option
of reaching out to touch
the inside of your lips
I've loved too much

without a mouth to speak the words
i want to

in blue basements, red hearts
dusty in the bedsheets
laying in the park
under greying buildings
we pretended worlds were ours
the closeness of our skin, obscured the passing cars
the closeness of our skin, above the summer stars

without a mouth to speak the words
i want to

without a mouth to speak the words
i want to

hearing your voice is still too much for me
the way you say my name 'soledad so-le-dad'
i'm jolted when my itunes delivers it to me in the amalgam of voice memoed songs
today i called my bank in frustration and once i'd given
all the information to prove I was who I was the teller said my name on the other end of the line
"Soledad?" he slipped out of his customer service tone into a different voice.
"yes" I replied eagerly, automatically, though he couldn't see my head nodding itself
it was only in the second afterwards that I thought about how lucky I was to be
that wash of warm water, that breath of tropical air, how lucky I was that
that "soledad" was me

loading (a poem on onewords from five months ago)

loading her boxes
into the back of the truck
the skin between her jeans
and her shirt
is visible

raw and
pale

she drops a cardboard
prism onto
the pavement
and it

unhinges itself
papers and pictures
splattering everywhere
like paint

her face and the faces
of everyone she
loves
flapping on the
concrete

a good day

can start with the way the sunbeams touch my face
warm
and a dress that covers just enough
skin to bare to bear the golden
touch and think
how wonderful it is to be warm

to play one's guitar in an empty room
and sing to no one
to notice in that moment
small kindnesses littered all around

and at the window
the sound of bells and spring

and while we go on

and while we go on human lives swing in the balance
twirling on tenuous strings waiting to be dropped
and still we call our mothers about forms
and worry about money and think
about the rooms in which we'll live when
some would like to live in rooms at all

and while we go on people eating our lunches
talking about fruit and places far away people
in hospital beds thinking how did i get here
thinking oh how will I go on

and while we go on writing poetry to try and think
these things away and brothers are angry at justice
mothers tell us into the receiver, it's touch and go
they tell us, touch and go on

i think that sometimes
i don't think at all
this urge for solitude
like wilderness
hungry trees that stab their
arms into the stark sky
and wolves that howl in loneliness
we want to be embodied in that pain
in those stories
we want to be deliciously
alone
we want to be seen
to be deliciously
alone

none of these words make any sense
and i don't care

you're sitting four feet from me and
i'm pretending that you mean so much more than you do

that i like you so much more than i do

that this is all so much more than it is

because really it's too much
because really it's too much