Weather Patterns

There is an eddy in the middle of our living room, just by the molting couch our roommate sleeps on. It leaves the carpet undisturbed, but above I can see the flow and ebb of our dynamics. Lots of good feelings, tied up with memories. Those float at the top, bubbly and warm. They spin in the eddy as though it were a ride.  I can hear them from our room late at night. I can hear the bark of your small dogs, the laughing of our friends. I can hear your voice, ridiculously loud when you're happy. I can hear the colder parts, too, that lie underneath.  Panic and insecurities.  I can hear your voice breaking, and the soft sound tears gliding down your cheek. Sometimes we fight, and there is no noise except frantic typing.  We don't speak in our anger.

I get so overwhelmed that I can't delve down to the deepest part. The middle of the eddy, that perpetuates the whole thing. But it's there, and when I rest my head against you I can hear your heart beat.

Roadkill

I have seen the hollow bones you try to hide under long shirts and faded jeans. Your delicate spine, waiting for late wings to sprout, curving uncomfortably sharp when you bend to sit down. A forced unnatural angle. You are not meant to be so still.

Little by little, we are learning.  These little angelfish caught in your beak, even they are trying to fly. But I have seen your hollow bones, and  I know.  Eventually their delicacy will become brittle and snap, like a flightless bird under the tire of our old Ford. 

The Bottom of My Stocking

We stick sweet to each other.
Two candy canes, forgotten in summer,
         Found together next Christmas
        Among barely working bulbs and
         Piles of fake fir boughs.
Now chemically bound,
We have grown
       Misshapen
       Grotesque and stale,
But still sweet.