the warmth of life without you

I sleep with the windows open

and so it comes in

the delightful sound of the wind

soundtrack to the silent sleep

filled at worst with nightmares

of days which are left behind

bound to live forever

at the edge of oblivion.

I sleep on my side of the bed

and I tremble softly from nightmares

of days I can’t forget

nightmares that are for once

day by day

faintly easier to awaken from.

I tremble and so often I land

across the bed, miles away

on the soft coldness

of where little before you

slept your dreamless sleeps

and for a second I shiver

and my heart stops at the gelid covers

the sweet wind outside

so kindly kissing each side of my face

and I awaken,

from the cold,

my heart in my trembling hand,

and I shiver but never weep,

alone with the whisper of winter

I hold my heart so dearly,

and I breathe in the warmth

of cold nights like this

the unmistakable warmth

of life without you.

home

the sound of the rain

on those rare summer nights

when i can sleep to my favorite song

a white dog

that was once small and almost all black

sleeping by my feet

breathing slowly

turning belly up

the pictures on the wall

the first one from a few years ago

the last christmas grandpa was alive for

my mom gave me the camera

wrapped in pretty red and green paper

the last one from graduation

with friends i haven’t seen in a few months

i never got to fill the entire wall

the orange candles

i used to lit every night

to write in that journal with a fancy ink pen

all the things i hoped for tomorrow.

tomorrow

is here

and home

becomes there

becomes then

becomes a memory

of summer rain, a sweet dog

orange candles, fancy pens

old pictures, old friends

home becomes a memory

then, there, once

and sometimes,

when it’s too cold outside

memories become home

here, now,

always.

a poem with no title
forgotten in a drawer
in a room where a boy once dreamed
of planes on the blue sky and boats on the infinite sea
in a house where once there was no silence
now there is nothing but.
someone told him
dreams don’t come true
and the sea is not infinite,
but forever too big for him to ever understand it
and his father bought him his first suit
it was still too loose,
but you’ll grow into it.
in the pockets there was no space for dreams
so he left them under his pillow
and at the bottom of the drawer.
sometime between then and now
they suffocated to death
just maybe the monsters under the bed
chocked them until helplessly they seized to exist
no one was there to hear their screams
but in the bottom of a drawer
in a room empty except for an old mattress and a washed-out suit
in a house that was no longer home
empty with the silence and the memories of children laughing
of the television on during dinner
of the oven telling us lunch was ready
of a baby crying
of the relieved sigh of mom after everyone had finally fallen asleep
in a neighborhood with too many noisy houses
for anyone to notice this one was silent
in that drawer
in that room
in that house
in that neighborhood
in that city
in that country
in this finite infinite world
there was hope.
a poem with no title
from a time when there was noise
and the sea was still infinite
and the monsters under the bed hadn’t been convicted of murder just yet
silence
and silence
and a poem with no title
and with a little bit of hope
and silence.