Text Poetry 08/14

I miss you in a space you don't occupy,

 a picture yet to be hung on the wall, 

but they are merely painted.

 I stand, staring, as if 

whatever you are will transform conversations into a collage, shuffled snapshots

 stepping beyond our lips

 and collecting mileage in trips. 

But I am talking to my sheets

and they haven't your voice. They only listen.

Healing sores

 is picking scabs and changing bandages, 

except emotions can't be peeled away 

and pain doesn't fit neatly under gauze. 

Relationships ask you to unmask the plaster, 

stop filling the cracks. 

Look at the ugliness and find more than crusty dreams?

 Maybe,

 when feeling fit more like a coat and less like skin

 or more like new shoes, not worn slippers. 

Maybe then will there be light.