(after Duncan)

Heart-shaped Scars

He's got heart shaped scars
covering his forearms, and

He'd say
he doesn't mind the sense of burning
speaks soft autumn downpour

while I
flash flood summer monsoon.

Some days
he doesn't like to leave his room.
These walls may seem to keep others away,
but I let them remain just to keep
my tin roof from caving in.

has a hard time feeling safe in his own skin -
so most days,
he wishes for the cover of clouds
the weight of knives,
and the clink of silverware.

Our conversation -
best over coffee.

In the morning,
we are both hopeful -
eggshell smiles which have not yet been cracked
by the daily grind
the harsh cycle of the clock
time over the chopping block
time over time
time over
constant disappointment.

By evening, we are both different.

still try hard hard to spit shine my smile,
while he loses his luster with the setting of the sun
carries the look of defeat about him
a worn leather coat, slung over one shoulder

he carries it casually,
makes hard look easy
as if this life were not grinding his knuckles loose change

Strange -
he says.
After a while over the coals,
one's nose no longer knows the smell of smoke.

He chokes the cigarettes down like each was his last -
and it could be.

He already knows that this life is not certain.
Already believes that his best days
are lost to the past...
Writes so many poems
about how love won't last
but he's so young -
ten years behind me
and dragging his feet.

whenever we meet
we get lost in the clinking of spoons
and perspectives.
Single-sized server's smiles,
and rich conversation.

His verses are carved
in milk chocolate -
melting, and sweet to the ear.

His voice - held so dear
swells with the welling of clouds
rises soft
falls down, gentle -
patter of droplets scattering soothe on this tired attic roof.

He is rarely aloof
as he is, in this moment.
Though I know that his tailored tone
is in my best interest.

we are saying goodbye.

When I say
I am headed for new horizons. New memories are calling my name...

His eyes
brown sugar
dissolved in spilled coffee.

He says, simply
I’ll miss you.

This soft-tongued confession
it scalds my heart.

He will not cry -
his tears just evaporate
in the heat
they wash nothing away.

will leave only a flood plain in my wake
will stay.

Water and grow -
inhale pain and passion to exhale as smoke
and one day, grow old

and he will remember me -
one more open flame. Too hot to touch
too long-gone to name, or to blame
for the love of infernos
those heart shaped scars on his forearms
he doesn't mind the sense of burning


That poem is not a poem yet.
Right now, it's just pretty bullshit.

(Evan Dissinger)