language fails me often

The birth of a metaphor is a hopeless place.

Think of it as

building a house back from ruins,

swimming through your mind,

searching for letters

that might cradle the ache

you rest in their curves.

Chisels in the left hands of all writers,

they try to carve out

the ugliest bits of the feeling.

Think of it:

Grief is a river I weep

on the bathroom floor.

A burning cigarette,

the reminder of time running out.

Faithlessness in the hues of green,

bled on the beds of reckless lovers.

The itch at the back of my throat

could be regret.

And love?

Love is the blade

in the trembling hands of a teenager.

Or maybe it’s something gentler

perhaps something the atoms vibrate with.

You see,

a collection of words cannot hold

what hearts are meant to.

When the door clicks shut after the

funeral,

and the apartment echoes

with the sound of keys

being dropped in the glass bowl,

there is no metaphor in sight

to soften the loneliness.

Or when, some moonlit night,

you hear the rustling of bedsheets

as your lover settles in their bed,

miles away.

to describe the loosening of the knot in

your chest

is like trying to catch moonlight

between your fingers.

The silver keeps slipping

through the gaps.