i had been breathing out

breathing in

a melancholy marching song.

watching,

perched lightly

(on the tips of my toes

in a tree of my own)

as it all went terribly wrong.

for you

had been gone

such a long, cruel time

before they called you gone

and what trickled back

was what we heard

(when we heard at all).

news was a dark,

vague,

dripping thing

that may or may not call.

the murk of this

did grow

(as we expect most things to do)

from a rivulet

to a stream

(one long step wide)

to a raging storm we could not see through.

like rushing wind and pouring rain

where the sky had just been blue;

only there were lengths and widths of grey,

as we swiped at the droplets to wipe them away,

that we chose to believe weren’t true.

as these torrents flowed like floods

they left behind,

over all i was,

trails of slimy, stinking mud

in the wake of an unknown cause.

for me,

young yet,

with my tenderest parts

way much too exposed

there seemed to be no place

(where the sign read ‘safe’ over the door

where  the walls could recall a time before)

to keep from getting wet.

i built up a dam

rock upon rock

to hold back what i’d crammed

right up to the top

and left just enough

room (to peek through)

a finger-sized hole

where the draft slunk in

so the breeze was always too cold.

beginnings ended,

as endings began

and at varying speeds

to unknown places

you ran.

the parades

passed by in formation.

the bands played on

a backdrop to the nation

we both were standing in

though you’d never know it.

the disconnection

didn’t tend to show it.

hope,

when it dies,

will evermore sound to me

like hushed words in a quiet house.

where no-one sleeps

(it is not to be)

under a scurrying mouse

who inhabits the spaces

around and above

the rooms where we tried to love,

filling the air with swirling emotions

that should have stuck like suntan lotions.

a coating to thicken our skins

fending off the point of time

that came ever nearer to rushing in,

like the clock in the hallway

the long, low chimes

serenading the moments where self-doubt begins.

erosions can look the same.

bits of life worn away

by inconstancy or pain

(raw and red)

are often misleading,

for the ones that hurt most

don’t always scream when they’re bleeding.

now i mourn for the loss of the fall

(something much less dear to me

than the thought of you ever was)

and i’ve lost more than i care to recall

so it’s amazing that most days

i don’t feel it at all

but for a muted buzz.

perhaps my wall still stands

each stone holding tight to its plot,

retaining the small bit of ground

which i labeled its private spot.

placing each with my own two hands,

i was knee deep in earth myself

but i wanted it done just so,

so i would not accept any help.

this left me all but alone

with the nameless, countless things that I felt

unsure how to start,

to climb,

even a halting way out .

till i found my reflection

careening

across the top of the water’s coat

and caught a glimpse

of the harsh, dry scarring

that somehow became my life’s little boat.

were the healing complete

i’m unsure how to bear it

having grown quite accustomed

to truth,

though it hurts.

it has it’s own way of bearing the proof

and i fear that the memories

blurring to sweet

might be even worse.

(forgetting would be losing, again.)

still the harsh waters buffet

and bruise as they pass

(though i cling, knuckles white,

to high ground to keep dry).

the sting of that cold

as it pummels my toes

is a jolt to my core

and my breathing revives.

‘dam’ taken from 17:14 of proverbs.

for my only brother.