The other day, I accidentally

spilled moonlight on the shadows

where you used to sleep.

I almost cleaned it up

until I realized it didn’t matter anymore.

I told the clouds they were not

welcome to shed tears

over your side of the bed,

that the rain had to drown me too.

I asked the sunset if

it ever missed the sun,

if vermillion meant farewell,

if the dusky purples hurt

when they were pressed,

if the coming darkness

felt as natural and as effortless

as it looked.

And when the night finally fell

in black oblivion

I found the light you left

in the corners of the room,

under the pillow,

in the spaces between my fingers.

I found it everywhere in the darkness

and nowhere in the daylight

and I hate you for that –

Which is why I started

making room for the moon in my bed

even though he bleaches the sheets.

And I let the clouds lay down their burden

gently, gently over your pillow

in place of my own.

I stopped asking the sunset questions

that I couldn’t answer

and started digging my hands

into the gracefulness of the sky and the ocean and
everything in between.

My writing process was basically:

Sat in chair. Thought about what to write about. Was overwhelmed by the pressure. Got out of chair. Made spaghetti. Ate spaghetti. Sat back in chair. Opened up Tumblr. Remembered that I was on a deadline and closed Tumblr. Tried to light a candle for atmosphere (failed miserably). Opened up RainyMood and piano music. Wrote a couple lines. Gave up and made hot almond and cream drink (if you want the recipe, just let me know. It’s really good). Got back in chair and wrote rest of poem in awkward, one-line bursts of impatience and imaginary angst.  

For the most part, writing the poem was quite difficult. I haven’t written much (creatively) since the summer. I found both the words and emotions rather elusive, and still feel like my words are not genuine enough. And in this way, I can sympathize with Wordsworth aka Kanye always writing from his point of view. I do think you need to be able to explore your thoughts on particular subjects, emotions, sensations before you can inhabit somebody or something else’s. It is even more difficult when you write about something you have never experienced, which is maybe why I felt so insincere writing about this kind of loss. And even if I knew it firsthand, I would still probably be at a loss for words that could depict it. This was a really fun and enjoyable assignment nonetheless but I don’t know, man. Poetry is hard.