Rake

 There is a cavernous ache in my spirit for the counterfeit love that is you. I cannot help but picture my hands delving deep into the mush and pumpkin seeds of last year's carving party carnage. I write you (pretending I have your address) to bleed you out of my veins. My pen licks my journal emulating the sound of my blade scraping out the stringy insides of my jack o' lantern. This is what I am doing now...carving out my insides for you.

 Our dialogue relied too heavily on telephone wires, mega pixels, satellites, saturation and soundbites. Your silence is a complex frequency. The hair on the back of my neck responds. Sometimes, I pretend you had more to say. Perhaps, between you and I, your authentic goodbye is tucking its heavy head behind the knees of an incredibly large and turbulent airwave. I imagine the barricade between us as a big grey parent named Know Better that slaps our knuckles into raw submission. I cannot text you anymore. I would blame God. But like Know Better I know too much. This was our fault. Call it karma.

 I cut my tongue out with the same blade I skinned my jack up with. Put a candle in me and I'll glow silently. Look out your window. Do you see my smoke signals drifting up from the depths of my throat? I cannot imagine you have ever seen, read or heard such smoke. I burn passionately for you.

 I lace wire through the canvas, I stitch it up. I lace wire through the canvas, I stitch it up. Grab the dropper and start at the top. I watch cerulean, magenta and "electric lemon" coalesce. In the lonely, snowy night I am making such a mess for you. 

 My roommate is out of town so I line the living room with candles. Monastery. I restart one for you. I restart one for her. I fan and flicker inside the glass dome of your chest. Turbulent and awake, I am your dormant afterthought.