WeSwallowTheSun

i think i’ll miss you 
but i’ll dream of you often 
you’ll remain in my thoughts 
and memories 
and of those, i have many 
which i’ve written in verse 
and sketched on napkins 
piled in waste cans
under the sink 
you may just be
a year in passing
so modest 
at first glance
brimming with all
the ample helpings 
of the deservedly tragic 
occasionally happy
and the more or less
necessary events 
that still seem to 
blemish these 
porcelain hands
and iron out a few 
of the countless flaws 
that still wrinkle this soul
you’ve silenced me 
and sometimes even 
surprised me 
i felt breath and heart 
pulled and pried 
you’ve lied to me 
so that i might find 
a scrap of truth 
behind the bristles of my tooth brush 
you’ve been a dicey year 
and i’m glad of it 
you’ve challenged me 
beaten me
and drawn me closer 
to the things that matter
so if there are a few last words
i’d like to say i’m happy you came 
and i’m happy you’re leaving 
you’ve given me more 
than i wanted 
but so much 
of what i needed 
so thank you
so long
adieu
and goodnight

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun 

i’m stimulated by uncertainty—

made mad by my mind

(wanderlust)
i scream for adventure
my imagination is a volcano in the dark
it erupts when the lights dim low and soft
my chest is cramped
my lungs are paper-thin
the air is slim
my limbs are itching for a thrill
my heart is an atomic river
i feel so undeniably small

smothered in my own skin

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

one night
i’ll wake to hear you breathing
asleep on the pillow beside me 
and my life will finally
start to make some sense 

it’ll be dark, the windows frosted
an hour or two before the light
ambles through 
the slits in our blinds 
i’ll find your loose fingers 
and legs 
still laced with mine 
your hair strung out across 
your face
(and between your lips)
buried 
in blankets 
up to your nose 
and i’ll know 
that it all was worth it  

every time someone borrowed my heart until they were bored and tossed it in the blender; every time i made a fool of myself for someone i adored and all they did was turn their back and roll their eyes; every night i spent thinking up the perfect lines to whisper in their ear to only find the words, at the time i spoke them, stumbling from my lips; every time i followed my heart to find that they were also following theirs and our paths didn’t quite align; every time i found out that all we had ever been were friends; every christmas under the mistletoe without a kiss; every new years eve without a hand to hold; every time i said goodbye; every failed attempt; every rejection; every year i spent chasing after the wrong one to only find that it was you and only you that mattered

so, to all the tearing of hearts, pounding of fists, bursting of lungs, and draining of tears

let it come

i’d run through a brick wall to find you

~weswallowthesun

i was seven, i knew her. kinda. she had long, shiny black hair. she wore a red ribbon, i’m almost sure. her eyes were blue. she had freckles all over her face and i always wanted to sit down and count them all one by one. i guess i knew her better by the way i felt when she was two feet from my toes. i don’t remember her name. all i remember is that i had a wrinkly dollar bill and a stubby pencil in my pocket and nervous hands that would spill a glass of milk every time they tried to pick one up. i managed to write out about a sentence on that dollar bill. it was my first attempt at a love poem of all i knew of love and girls. it went:

“i do nott kno u, but i tink i kinda kno u & u r vary pritty like a flwer or a rainbo, but bettar cuz u r a girl. i love u.” 

that’s when she saw me and i saw her and paused then gulped and i gave her the note and she didn’t say a word and she tucked it in her pocket and stopped chewing her gum and plucked it from her lips and stuck it in my palm then gave me a smile and left in a van with her mother. that’s also when my tiny heart shot off like a mushroom cloud. i felt like an ocean too infinite to tred by doggy paddle.

.

.

i’m pretty sure i drowned. 

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

(After six years of meticulous planning, French high-wire artist Philippe Petit type-rope walked across a wire that stretched between The World Trade Centers in August of 1974)

.

.

if i were a ghost
i swear, i’d crawl
between your bones
within the skull
and dwell inside
your mind
for just
one hour
that static hour
when time
did cease to chime
and breaths
were held
so many eyes
beheld
you perch
as the dove
or the sparrow
toes and feet
asphyxiating
a wire
taunt
between
two towers 
without a net
without a chute
without a license
or even a plan for 
if you fell
but if you fell
i think that you’d
have smiled
and knew that
you had lived
with blood
that feared
not man
or death
or pain
or fame
or failure
but lived for
passion
and with a 
heart
that of a martyr
you risked 
your life 
in what made
you come so
truly alive 

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

I may not be able to promise you I’ll take you all those places that you’ve read about in books, but I’ll promise to tell you stories and fill your heart with love and words and thoughts and truth.

I cannot lasso you the moon but you’re more than welcome to see its reflection in my spoon.

I cannot fly you to the Louvre but I know that I can paint you worlds you’ve never seen in the palms of your hands and the knobs of your knees.

You can probably tell I can’t promise that you’ll ever see Verona but I’ll promise we’ll sip cider and pretend that it’s fine wine and spin scratchy Italian records through the rafters all night sleeping beneath the stars.

And as it goes, I cannot promise that we’ll ever go to Paris and stand atop the Eiffel Tower but I’ll promise that we’ll perch on rooftops singing over skylines with candy cigarettes and watch black-and-white French films without the subtitles and make up every line they say as if we’re sitting at an old cafe.

I cannot promise that there’ll be presents every year beneath the Christmas tree or that there’ll be any Christmas tree at all, but I’ll promise that I’ll wrap myself in lights and ribbons, and I’ll let you unwrap me all for free.

I cannot promise that you’ll always be happy every day or that I’ll always have a joke to tell, or that I’ll always know just what to say exactly when I should say it, but I’ll promise to be honest and loyal till your knuckles start to lock and your hair turns white and your breasts droop and liver spots start to grow with cataracts on your eyes and winkles on your face and all the way down your thighs and we’ll never leave an argument bitter or resentful but I’ll always choose to stick it out until I see a smile on your face.

I promise I’ll try to be unselfish, kind and gracious and forgiving and I’ll pray for wisdom every chance I see. I can’t promise that you won’t fall out of love, but if you do, I’ll pursue you till you fall back into me. 

These pockets may be empty, but I swear my jacket’s warm.

I’ll reserve my lips for you, my fingers and my heart. Also these arms and eyes, yes these eyes that look at you as if you’re a goddess most divine even when you’re hair’s a mess and your make-up’s smeared and you’re wearing an old T-shirt.

All this is yours for the keeping. As well as these words, they’re free, so tuck them in your sleeves.

I cannot give you a Hollywood romance, but I can give you love and I hope that that’s enough. 

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

ten years ago, today 
you were here on christmas 
it was a different house
i was younger, so much younger 
hardly a hair on my chest 
you sat in a salmon colored chair 
with a green robe and a white t-shirt 
you were thin, but your eyes 
remained the same 
brilliant blue, like the ocean
why i’m drawn to it even now 
as if with each passing wave 
i’ll catch a glimpse of you

i can’t remember you well 
but i still can see your smile 
your eyes and the way you laughed 
and the way you held me closer 
when i tried to run away 
so for this christmas 
and every christmas after 
i’ll promise you that
if i choose to laugh
i’ll laugh with all my breath 
and if i choose to love
i’ll love with all my heart 
and if i choose to dance 
i’ll dance until i can’t 
and if i choose to give 
i’ll give until it’s gone
for if this day means anything 
i’ll make the most of everything 

i love you dad, 
forever, 

your son

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

i cannot tell you where
i’ll be ten years
from now 
nor can I tell you where
i’ll be in ten minutes 
i try to listen
closely
to the cadence
of my heart 
but the needle
of my compass 
seldom ever
points true north 
so maybe, only maybe
i was never meant 
to know
exactly where 
or how or what 
i dearly should expect 
so I will stay this course 
without the guidance 
of the stars 
or a map 
or destination 
or no place to call my own
but this can’t be done without you
so please

won’t you be my home?

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

.

.

.

they say that space is the final frontier
(are not we forgetting something?)
we have yet to discover the pathways
of the human heart
every delicate feature
cannot be explained through neuroscience 
or psychology
or naturalistic intuition
for love is a spark too highly unique 
it is not physics
or mathematical equations 
you cannot conceive of it with solely your mind 
these intangible thoughts far escape the scrutiny
of a microscope
or a physician’s scalpel,
or a chemist’s tube 
and even more
they try to reduce it 
to merely behavior
as if every action could be done
without the slightest intention to love
but sex is cannibalistic 
and flowers a bribe if
not for motives of unselfish desire
but how does one describe unquenchable fire? 
if not through poetry
and metaphors
and words 
that are breathed through lips and teeth
stretching far beneath,
back through vibrations from strings of the heart—
muscles contracting,
neurons firing, 
cells splitting,
electrons orbiting
(this is not love—love is immaterial)
you cannot define it through nature alone

love is more than animal instinct 
love is more than verbs 
love is more than words 

love is more 

.

.

.

if you find the answer, please let me know

.

.

~weswallowthesun

i’m the dried flower pressed between the pages of your book
i’m the copper spoon jangled between the walls of your mug
i’m a glass lens posed between the moon and your eyes
i’m a horn bow cradled between the arrow and your pinch
i’m the chilled ink drained between the pen and your thoughts
i’m the tattered raft postured between the ocean and your feet 
i’m the afterthought, the placeholder, the crutch
(but when your plane goes down)
i’m the blind ripcord stitched between the earth and your hand
(if I wasn’t there, where would you land?)

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

let’s end this now
before we both burn 
and get swept with the ashes 
into dustpans and pales
i’d rather not see the 
last of our friendship 
jared in a urn 
as a mantlepiece
along with all of the rest
of the lost
and unrequited 
of yesterdays loves

.

.

~weswallowthesun

i lied in a bed.

(alone) 

the windows were cold to the touch with the back of my hand.

i breathed once on the glass.

it fogged. i never traced a heart, because i couldn’t find a reason to do so.

i didn’t speak for there was no need to speak. the room spoke for me. i listened and the ghosts told me everything. too much, i’d have to say. in an ocean of static, i knew i had drowned, vanishing—inch by inches inch. each breath escaping from the pocket of my lungs. 

i allowed my eyes to dilate, finding nothing i hadn’t seen before—plain and old things. there were pale beige walls, except for a dark blue stripe that ran in a circle around my head, like the fan above it, static, collecting dust and loose strands of silk from when the spiders packed up and left. they never told me why. i never asked.

against the wall were two cherry wood dressers—some drawers were crammed with orphaned notes, ripped envelopes, ticket stubs, candy wrappers, sketches of dreams, lists of things never uncrossed, journals once started then neglected, empty film cases, photographs of worlds i never owned, postcards of places i’ve never been, secrets encrypted with numbers and colors…

there was a desk beside my bed without a chair. on it lied empty sheets of paper waiting to be ravaged with words and ink. but as virgins, i left them. all those words that were meant to be written but never found a voice. 

a year ago, today, i was hollow. i was faint. 

a year from then, today, i feel whole. i am strong. 

a year from then, today, i don’t feel nervous to wake up every morning, and my hands don’t start to shake when i walk out from the door. now i do not fear the talk of tomorrow. i’m older now and i don’t feel old. it’s colder now and i don’t feel cold. 

this body once ached. i couldn’t find the words to sing. i searched, please believe me, but they never came. i cried for years and just got weary. you’d understand, i know you would. i cried until my soul was numb. 

a year from then, today, i feel my heart, it’s drumming; my chest is full and warm. place your hand to my skin, you’ll feel it.  

a year ago, today, i lost touch in the magic; i lost touch. i spent so long waiting for a miracle and never took the time to realize all the ones i had forgotten. 

a year ago, today, i was alone. 

a year from then, today, i found a home. 

.

.

~weswallowthesun

see, you’re doing no one a favor
there are too many people pleasers,
sell-outs and suck-ups,
and smiling through teeth 
which we cannot afford any longer
we need less of pretense and more of vulnerability
we need less of politicians and more of authenticity
(this is what we need)
we need less of crossed arms and more of embracing
we need less of closed books and more of releasing 
it all begins with you
it all begins by giving without the intent of receiving
forgiving without the intent of being forgiven
and loving without the intent of being loved in return

this is where we can start

.

.

~weswallowthesun

i see you 
i know you not
i know you 
i see you not 
you’re a shadow 
you’re a whisper 
you’re the breath 
on a wintry night
you’re the death 
of every scar 
and the birth 
of every star 
you’re the hapless
reverie 
that speaks 
virtue into me
and i choose
to cry of times
we never had 
and all the times
we should have had 
but a tear never 
saved me 
nor ever
cleansed a thing
but maybe 
i can plant a tree
and waste all my 
melancholy on it
until sprouts appear 
and roots 
and branches 
and i’ll sit 
until i’m carried 
by this
winding oak 
from whence it grows
and perch atop 
as the owl 
until morning

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun

you can kiss me for a time, until i see the gloss behind your eyes 
but they might be lying and unsure (i can’t tell)
you can strip off all your clothes, until i see you’re every curve 
but you’re still dressed in all your skin (i want more)
you can peel back sleeves of flesh, until i find your heart and lungs
but you’re not a slew of organs in a cage (i know that)
you can rip apart your form, until there’s nothing left to touch 
but discarnate thoughts are all the more enticing (draw me closer)
you can tell me all your dreams, until i know each crease and corner 
but your emotions are so soberly misleading (i am lost)

.

.

there must be more than words and form that makes me fall in love 
there must be more than incorporeal dreams that draws me closer still
(an ethereal magnetism)  

so please just stay awhile
for i may just never know 
why i’m delighted by your smile

.

.

~weswallowthesun

you asked for all of me
and i gave you a glass of water and a jar of dirt 
for i am made up of 60% the former and 40% percent the latter 
but what’s great is that you can mix it and make mud
which happens to be the color of your eyes 

.

.

~weswallowthesun

You have a collection of 400 records

I know this because you told me 

You have a fascination with antiquity

And taking pictures of old men

In suit coats on park benches

Because you think it’s “darling”  

I know this because you told me

You live in a house made of glass 

Your favorite word is “metamorphosis”

And you have twelve hundred dreams every night 

Which you write down in a little black book 

(Which no one has ever seen, but you)

That you hide under your yellow hooded waste jacket 

With seven buttons on each side 

I know this because you told me 

You have a turtle and a squirrel as your pets 

You own nine hundred and ninety nine books

Of them you’ve only read six hundred and thirty six 

And keep the rest only for rainy days 

You sit on the roof when you’re bored

And count cars as they pass by your street on Perennial Drive

Once you counted seven hundred and four

I know this because you told me 

On Tuesdays you walk to the museum 

And on Mondays you bake three dozen cookies 

And light matches in the tub 

You play two-dozen instruments minus one

The oboe and the bass violin are two of them 

You draw pictures on your skin

That defines the moods you’re in

One time you drew a picture

Of a purple spotted giraffe

I know this because you told me

.

.

But I still feel like you’re a stranger 

.

.

.

~weswallowthesun