poems – Can't Not Write

A Book Falls

A book falls, I fall.

The proper thing to do is to pick it up, dust it off and hold it close to your heart.
Not me, not this time.

Although I haven’t climbed these stairs in years
they always sound the same
under my feet,
creak and splinter,
in the same spots.

I only see you in dreams.
Don’t dwell on it
Don’t think about what could have been

In the middle of a headache
I imagine my nerves are the roots of a tree.

A gentle caress from familiar fingertips
a longing to be wrapped up,
completely surrendering
to a past intoxication.

These bones are iron
to sink
and shake.
She did this to herself.

Oblivion would be greeted with open arms,
and you will be turned away at the door.

Words bring forward stars,
to forge a world from the ink,
breathe,
your heart will write.

I can no longer tell if this shadow
hidden
somewhere deep
was created or always was.

Is it possible to split this heart in two and give away the pieces?

They are sharp, jagged.
Not equal,
not perfect halves.