Dance on our Graves

and sometimes it's just one song
you play on repeat to bring
those wayward ships home
twisting the blurry lens of your dry, dry eyes
you focus on the white sails
billowing over the curve of the earth.

the piano repeats the melody
in simple twos and threes you think
you could have played it yourself
if you'd only paid a little more attention
as a child, though to your credit
you thought the lighthouse
was the only signal you'd ever need.

it translates to the heat you felt in senegal,
the closest to home you'd been in months
only an ocean to seperate the inevitable
but it would take a host of angels
to remind you you'd never make it,
without one song to play on repeat.


....

somedays, i think i could write a novel. i'd pour it all out - all those months and years - segregated into seasons and swells and shorelines all neat and simple-like by chapter title and page number.

but the real fear is this: if ever i accomplish it and i get it all out (all those regrets and hopes and joys and sorrows and fears and dreams and sins and songs and sunsets and prayers and apologies) spilled out over hundreds of pages with gallons of black ink... what will be left of me?