I wait for you at an
unexpected place in your journey
like the rusted key
or the feather you do not pick up
until the way back
—Leonard Cohen, from “The Way Back”
From Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs (via liquidnight)
Purple flowers grow, the color blood looks in the veins. They’ll sprout out of my chest. I promise you they’ll crack the ground, grow over the freeways down the slopes to the sea. I’ll be in their faces. I’ll be in the waves, coming down on you from the sky. I’ll be inside the one who holds you.
And then I won’t be.
“Beloved, we are always in the wrong,
Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,
Suffering too little or too long,
Too careful even in our selfish loves:
The decorative manias we obey
Die in grimaces round us every day,
Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice
Which utters an absurd command - Rejoice. ”
Let me destroy everything that I’ve written
that doesn’t have to do with the way you walk like you’re trying to hold
the sky up with your palms.
I’ve been listening to the rain for the past couple of days, have
been listening to songs that sound like what the rain would say if she
spoke English instead of Morse code, and if my
translations are correct, all she wants is for us to stand beneath her
with our mouths open, mouthing — kiss me.
I love like a leaky faucet or I love like a dam breaking.
There is nothing in between.
When I met you, the little Dutch boy pulled his finger
out of my chest and suddenly, everything inside of me spilled out at once.
I puddled an ocean, rounded the corner on Third Ave all the way uptown
to Grand Central like a flash storm, and
I couldn’t touch a thing without inflicting
water damage, without you breaking apart every molecule
that I had ever known.