What do we hold when the arms aren’t there for holding?
Where do we put the longing and how do we build a place
inside ourselves strong enough to endure the ache?
When we become frantic and only the sound of our own
breath echoes through the emptiness where we can swear,
absolutely bet our lives that laughter should live, what then?
Was it always dark or did light once shine here? Where is your
spark and why can I not feel the heat of it from where I stand?
Every minute I am not with you I can feel a piece of hope
evaporating into the ether and I have run out of strength
to reach up through the sky to try to catch it’s moisture,
to feel it land on my hands and absorb itself into my skin
and carry itself through the miles of veins that have lost
their purpose when your hands are too far from my hands and
there is no need to rush blood to the corners of these lips,
no need to curl them into a smile for eyes that won’t see it.
How do we stop counting the days, when it’s the hours that
taunt us and the fact will always remain that it’s every single
minute that you are not near me that attach to me like thousands
of anchors and pull me deeper beneath the surface. I am drowning
and choking and gasping for breath but it is not the water that
I am drowning in, there are no swallowed fish in these lungs and I cannot
taste the sea. Drowning not in water but in the sheer volume
of tears that have gone unwiped by fingers taking leave of my
hand they were holding. Choking not on a lack of air and not
on the flavor of breath that I have forgotten but on the lack
of you and the number of moments left unshared between us. On the
life that flows beyond us endlessly while we sit on the shore
and wait to be ready to dip our toes in, ready to jump with
our clothes on.
Is this what you wished for on all of the candles on all of the
birthday cakes from when you were tiny? Did you watch the smoke
rise to the ceiling and believe with all your little heart that your
wish rose with it, disappearing into everywhere the instant it was
received by whomever would do the receiving. I want to somehow
tell you that I can feel my childhood inside me, screaming and
slapping the walls of my chest and when those tiny hands are covered
in the red of this aching and they match the color of those tiny knees
and the weight of it all crumples his tiny body to the floor of my
insides what then do I say? Do I apologize and re-light every candle
he’s ever blown out in some weak and hollow attempt to repent for the
madness he will one day face, the longing he will wrap himself in?
For now I will rock him gently back to some form of calm as I raise
my left hand slightly above my face and let it hold my chest higher,
while I drop my right hand where your waist should be and I feel
my feet fumble through the familiar steps of a familiar dance.
I will dance with the ghost of you and swear that when I turn
just in the right direction or close my eyes long enough I can smell
your hair and feel the form you should be filling spill into my empty
fingers. I will hear the fabric rustle and the feet shuffle and
taste your lips on my lips and feel your heartbeat bouncing through
the cavity where I know my heart once lived before it grew tired of
this place and paid it’s last month rent and left nothing but empty
boxes and broken promises and piles of my life like dust on the floor
ready to be swept up and thrown away with all it didn’t see fit to
pack for the trip back to you. When the music that isn’t playing stops
and the awkward shuffling alone through the room feels sillier than
it should and I am left standing alone and dizzy will the walls whisper
to me, finally, all of the words that were left unsaid between us?
Will they mock me or will they grow soft and cradle me into them
and allow me the spared dignity of muffling my sobs with their
insulation, just for a moment, just for awhile.
How can I see all I am missing when it is things I’ve never seen?
How do I know what your arms would look like painted with sunrise and
the lines from the blinds on the windows? How your back will
become littered with goosebumps when by a combination of accident and
precise purpose, my fingers brush your spine as I zip and unzip
your dress? What do I hold, where do I put this ache and how do
I stop being so frightened by the sound of my own voice echoing
back through the emptiness when it screams the words
I Love You back to me only softer, only further away. How do
I not feel broken when the final echo stops and the sound of
Love and You fades into nothing once more?
~ Tyler Knott Gregson
Where do we put the longing and how do we build a place
inside ourselves strong enough to endure the ache?
When we become frantic and only the sound of our own
breath echoes through the emptiness where we can swear,
absolutely bet our lives that laughter should live, what then?
Was it always dark or did light once shine here? Where is your
spark and why can I not feel the heat of it from where I stand?
Every minute I am not with you I can feel a piece of hope
evaporating into the ether and I have run out of strength
to reach up through the sky to try to catch it’s moisture,
to feel it land on my hands and absorb itself into my skin
and carry itself through the miles of veins that have lost
their purpose when your hands are too far from my hands and
there is no need to rush blood to the corners of these lips,
no need to curl them into a smile for eyes that won’t see it.
How do we stop counting the days, when it’s the hours that
taunt us and the fact will always remain that it’s every single
minute that you are not near me that attach to me like thousands
of anchors and pull me deeper beneath the surface. I am drowning
and choking and gasping for breath but it is not the water that
I am drowning in, there are no swallowed fish in these lungs and I cannot
taste the sea. Drowning not in water but in the sheer volume
of tears that have gone unwiped by fingers taking leave of my
hand they were holding. Choking not on a lack of air and not
on the flavor of breath that I have forgotten but on the lack
of you and the number of moments left unshared between us. On the
life that flows beyond us endlessly while we sit on the shore
and wait to be ready to dip our toes in, ready to jump with
our clothes on.
Is this what you wished for on all of the candles on all of the
birthday cakes from when you were tiny? Did you watch the smoke
rise to the ceiling and believe with all your little heart that your
wish rose with it, disappearing into everywhere the instant it was
received by whomever would do the receiving. I want to somehow
tell you that I can feel my childhood inside me, screaming and
slapping the walls of my chest and when those tiny hands are covered
in the red of this aching and they match the color of those tiny knees
and the weight of it all crumples his tiny body to the floor of my
insides what then do I say? Do I apologize and re-light every candle
he’s ever blown out in some weak and hollow attempt to repent for the
madness he will one day face, the longing he will wrap himself in?
For now I will rock him gently back to some form of calm as I raise
my left hand slightly above my face and let it hold my chest higher,
while I drop my right hand where your waist should be and I feel
my feet fumble through the familiar steps of a familiar dance.
I will dance with the ghost of you and swear that when I turn
just in the right direction or close my eyes long enough I can smell
your hair and feel the form you should be filling spill into my empty
fingers. I will hear the fabric rustle and the feet shuffle and
taste your lips on my lips and feel your heartbeat bouncing through
the cavity where I know my heart once lived before it grew tired of
this place and paid it’s last month rent and left nothing but empty
boxes and broken promises and piles of my life like dust on the floor
ready to be swept up and thrown away with all it didn’t see fit to
pack for the trip back to you. When the music that isn’t playing stops
and the awkward shuffling alone through the room feels sillier than
it should and I am left standing alone and dizzy will the walls whisper
to me, finally, all of the words that were left unsaid between us?
Will they mock me or will they grow soft and cradle me into them
and allow me the spared dignity of muffling my sobs with their
insulation, just for a moment, just for awhile.
How can I see all I am missing when it is things I’ve never seen?
How do I know what your arms would look like painted with sunrise and
the lines from the blinds on the windows? How your back will
become littered with goosebumps when by a combination of accident and
precise purpose, my fingers brush your spine as I zip and unzip
your dress? What do I hold, where do I put this ache and how do
I stop being so frightened by the sound of my own voice echoing
back through the emptiness when it screams the words
I Love You back to me only softer, only further away. How do
I not feel broken when the final echo stops and the sound of
Love and You fades into nothing once more?
~ Tyler Knott Gregson
