Dust and Old Wool

This poem is a "single" for the book "Johnny Boy's Bones" coming out early next year.

Alone. Broken.
The ridges—
straining, jagged—
cut into the sky.

They kiss the void,
blue and vast,
something I don’t understand,
never will.

The wind howls
through the cracks—
cold, brutal—
and I’m standing here,
waiting,
hoping.

She waits too—
just beyond the line.
Too many damn days.
Too many hours
lost in nothing.
Wondering if I’ll ever make it.

The gravel
grinds through me,
bones bruised beneath boots,
every step heavy
with all the misery I carry.
Joints stiff,
old doors that refuse to bend.
Time has forgotten me.

A sour wind
fills my lungs—
bitter, like something I can’t wash out.
It stings where warmth used to hide,
now it’s gone,
gone like everything else.

A stomp.
A thud.
My chest tightens.
The chill climbs my spine,
sharp teeth,
nipping, biting.

Clothes—
worn, ragged,
stained by years
I couldn’t outrun.
My head’s shielded,
but it’s a dull shield,
sunless for too long.
Nothing is enough.
Everything is too much.
I can’t breathe without feeling
the weight of it all—
lost time,
wasted moments.

Blood.
It stains the sheets.
My sleep soaked in it.
It slips out,
spilling from soft flesh.
No matter how hard I try,
it keeps coming,
keeps reminding me
that pain is the only truth.

The itch,
it grows,
prickling beneath skin,
like something alive.
The beard, too,
it grows—
too thick,
too heavy.
A mask.
I wear it now.

Tremors.
My hands shake.
Nails thick, stained—
the last thing left
of who I used to be.
I’ve clawed at days I let slip,
gone now,
like dust.

Cold.
It runs through me,
ice in my veins,
unchanged.
It burns,
but I don’t feel it anymore.
A flicker in my chest—
an ember of something
that once lived.

Sparks fly,
bright,
in the dark of night—
but they’re gone too quickly.
Like everything else.
She waits.
I know she waits.

Alone.
More than this.
I can’t carry it—
can’t reach her.
Too much distance now.
Too much lost.
Too much gone.

I can’t cross that line.
I’m afraid of what’s on the other side.
Afraid of the silence.
Afraid of what I’ve built:
this emptiness
around me.

A crack splits the air—
change is near.
Blue eyes
cut through the fog—
but there’s no one to meet them.
No one to see. But me.

The fog grows thicker,
like a quilt I never asked for.
The clouds drift,
leaving me alone again.
Yet still,
I’m not.

Lost.
As much as I am.
My last breath,
one more try—
to hold the weight,
to take one more step.
But I don’t promise nothing.