I miss you,
like the white noise you only notice when it stops,
like fingers cut off
and gone missing into a lack of grip.

You’re the body part I wasn’t born with.
The thought in my head
that I was torn with
and along the lines of this scrap piece of paper
I’ll show you exactly what I mean.
Because I want you to say that you’ve seen
the portraits that I’ve spelled out for you
with vowels inside verbs
in absurd plays depicting the impossible
and that final scene we just didn’t see coming.

And in this place your face
has spilt over mine
and I can see through the liquid of your eyes
while our hearts beat,
off-set from each other
to create one long rhythm
that sound itself can neither
describe, or pronounce.

When I think of your name I describe myself
and my hands scribe words
that talk about every inch of your body.
That body that steams naked, melting winter in Vancouver
and making it rain everyday.
A rain that cleans the brink and concrete
where everyone thinks
they know what it’s like,
but have only walked past
while holding their breath.

But here is where I am,
where the pavement on this street is stretched
as if reaching in both directions
where the fear of intersections leaves me guessing.
It’s like my minds been keeping itself busy
and along this pathway,
the older games no longer get played
and it’s like we all want to go by different names
than the ones we’re born with.
And in the simplest of ideas
I count myself lucky,
lucky I understand without losing my grip
on what usually slips away.
I just want to tell you things about myself,
like sometimes I cant be myself when you’re around,
but it’s only because I’m staring at you through a screen that wishes it were a door.
And the sound your voice makes
when you say my name’s
no longer the same
as I remember it,
but we haven’t known each other long enough for me to say something like that,
but I still did.
It’s like we met
just to forget ourselves
until there were enough other faces
for us to disappear
and as unclear as our lives may have seemed
we still need to remember
that we leaned on purpose.
It was us who found our uses,
opening up in places
where too many have abused this.

Just to say hello, only moments
before we kissed goodbye
in that hotel sunrise
where nobody had to wait for the elevator
because I was the only one coming back down to earth
dressed in its concrete skirts
and telephone wire veins
that charged me every time I wanted to hear your voice.


About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

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