in memory of

I was thinking of all the mausolea
and each time is like the last, in only the fact
that it's artifacts collected, revered solemnly, or left to sit

the turquoise bandana I got you to trade me for my red
and then insistently switched, post shower, pre bed
in an effort to save our scents on each
to leave with the other after.
That turquoise bandana, worn by you, smelling of tiger balm,
and your body
well I wore it to a thing and we all took molly
and it was a million degrees and stagnant as a coffin
so I put it in the freezer to wear as a neck-snake
which I handed around,
and after
you were nearly overwhelmed by the others.

The pink lighter I got you to trade me for my orange
the one others pick up, light things with,
and I'm staring
for the fist that clutches
for the pocket it's sneaked carelessly into,
for the rotation of it paired with the bowl.
When no one notices, I snatch another lighter and pair it with the bowl
insisting, to all who ask, I can't find it? use this one.
Nearly overwhelmed by others.

The strength left on my bed of you, of us
the pillow your sweated head rested on, your neck
pungent,
pungented on
the sheets writhed in by you
the net, wound around by you
and my friend, my companion, someone other than you
naps there.
and you were nearly overwhelmed by another.

And then, simply, the objects left
the empty can of lemon la croix on the edge of a tub
from our shower, the
half-full jar of water (bulgarian yogurt) resting on the sill above the bed
these are not overwhelmed by others
these are the last touches of you
your prints on my life, my room, my house of intimacy
These are the relics, the artifacts of my mausoleum.
These are the last bits of your touch on me, now.
These are proof to me that you were in fact, you
here
earlier
with me, in total

these are the only tribute I have
And they fade with each movement of the others, of another,
  but you will not fade
                as they fade.

Dear diary

Waiting for what? Waitin for twat 8th grade me asks. Well, just waiting. I don't like to hurry but for when everything in me spills out and I need it now. I tried to buy a diary today. There were no coincidences today. There were no diaries at this shitty Art store, and I am on again off again, and the only thing I'm rushing home to is a different love in an unfeeling house. I finally shoved something inside my rotten little body. I've been quiet for days. Some might threaten, too quiet. I am shutting all of my holes: to breathing, eating, singing, shitting. I am a near empty glob of no exits, no entrances. Even my words have no place to go. That was my diary entry.

Justice

I had a long dream and in it was justin laying on a couch. There was a big loft, and layers of party happening everywhere. In it I was trying to reach out to him for that apology I've wanted for nearly 2 years. In it there was a moment of ecstasy where I touched his face and cried. In it he told someone that he wanted to be near me, from his lazed position on a couch, unmoving, untrying for it. I kept pulling him aside and he would push me away and the conversation would never happen. I think I have paragraphs for him but then in real life when we are face to face I have only a sentence where I dismiss everything and say, I've just pretended that nothing ever happened. Because my brain and body have thrown it all up and I don't want it to go any further. Nor do I want to ever anticipate getting what I've needed in maybe one sentence from him, because all of me knows that that's never. All of me has also always known that our coupledom was doomed from the beginning. How many thousands of miles away and the drop of a word or a line and then the dropping of a person from across however phones work. Dismissed as soon as it really begins to warm out, and I'm left with the imprint of my own body on the curb while the sunsets, waiting. For what? The invisible not-really person to become visible and really-there. I had at least hmm let's count them 5 relations with others the summer after and before I moved to New Orleans. I am always reaching out to connect with someone who won't shy from me and from my holding on. Of course it rarely takes but I still do and every notch is carved forever and it shows which makes sense because someone flirtingly accused that I was born in 1973 today. I look at pictures taken 1 2 4 years ago and remember the eerie feeling of existing that long ago not so different as I am now. Still wishing hoping but jaded on the needing of that justice, that sigh of alright, I finally got what I asked for.