there are things in this world that i could be. heavy things like the road spattered on by blood & bones & cross-country hopes ( the ground is never green where you drop your heart. you’re always a slapdash crime scene, waiting on 911 to get back to you. )
or soft things like — like —
right. you’ve taken the soft things out my hands, freshly cut hair to the sound of wings taking off, shaking fruit tree limbs until there is nothing left.
my list of things keeps getting longer. flowers. frogs. fruit. open ended conversations. invitations that never pick up. the silence of dead air on the phone. soft things. hard things. the edge of his palm, the absent air — exchanged over and over inside lungs that loved
and hated until they had nothing left. there was a belief that there are so many things given to you. air. steps. voice. use them wisely.
and i stand here as none of those things. only hard and soft. the static in between.
Your roommate rushes through your bedroom door and shakes you awake. You’ve got to leave right now. the apartment next to yours is on fire. You get up, grab some shorts and a shirt, toss them on, and run outside.
now, You weren’t thinking right when You got up, so it isn’t until You’re a safe distance away from the fire that you actually start to to use Your head in any way.
You start to think about a couple of different things at once. is it okay to wait for this to blow over in a restaurant? is it too late for a coffee? what’s open right now? what time is it?
not once do you even think about the people around You. You haven’t yet stopped to consider the lives that have just been changed forever, or the smell that is going to haunt the family next door for
far too long.
well, to be fair, You have thought about the smell, but only because You’re going to have to smell it from next door. You’re more worried about the clothes you threw on than any of that.
which is understandable, because why would You want to wear that bright orange shirt with those faded, lime green gym shorts?
You must feel pretty embarrassed, everyone in the complex is outside right now, and they can all see that You can’t manage to put on clothes that match.
forget about the dog the neighbors are calling for or the police officer asking if the victims had any enemies. because all of that’s going to be over and done with just as quick as it all started.
soon, the people next door will be taken to a hotel, the dog will probably come running around the corner, the firefighters will find the cause of the fire, but You’ll still be the guy in the green and orange.
the news vans will be here shortly to take interviews and point cameras so that they have something to air on their morning news.
and heaven forbid someone catch You In something that doesn’t match. so many people probably watch the news every morning, You should’ve grabbed some jeans.
You aren’t thinking about the people next door, You haven’t done it a single time this whole night. but who’s to judge, right?
You are in a pretty bad spot Yourself, one that insurance doesn’t cover.
as much as i hate admitting it to myself, i still do type your username on the search bar. i still remember your birthday and the way your blue eyes shine when you smile. i still wait for a someday where maybe we’ll cross paths again but deep down, i know someday doesn’t have a date. i still lay on the floor, listen to your song and feel my tears filter through the cracks of my broken heart. no one told me getting over someone would be so damn hard, if only you would’ve come with a warning sign…
i long for the day i won’t see you in my dreams anymore.
‘Til the end of time within
All of us thy glory will overwhelm
And none other shall ever match thy skill
For grim sorrow through great art thou can heal.
Resting during day, thou shimmer by night
Despising the sun, I bask in thy light.
But such fame is no gift to
No one but thyself doth thou admire
Many previous ones have drowned in their pride,
Yet by thy lethal pull I must abide.
Beware, my love, for contempt is a sin
To the simplest souls blissful death has been.
How wielding such wisdom doth thou ignore
The dryness thy loss could bring in my core,
In which distress would be all worlds marine?
Still for an enslaved life I yearn and pine
And though in harsh salt thou tear me apart,
Twice a day to thee I will lose my heart.
On November 4, 1918, Wilfred Owen (b. March 18, 1893) was killed in action. Owen wrote some of the best poetry on World War I, with imagery that unflinchingly details the terrors of trenches and gas warfare. Imbued with confidence from mentor Siegfried Sassoon, much of his poetry also refuses to shy away from his feelings as a gay man. A mere five of his poems were published during his lifetime. When Owen died one week before the Armistice, he was only 25 years old.