it is a bit past 3 AM and i am waiting for you to see me.
see me, see me.

you told me to write you a poem so here it is.

i am invisible and i am waiting for you to see me.
i cannot make myself seen, i cannot make you look.
so i wait. i wait, for it is all i can do and i cannot live with the feeling of doing
nothing.
powerlessness, in its all its bitter comfort, cradles me like an old friend.

a reconnection.

right now i am putting on the record we both like and i am pretending that you and i are the only ones who have ever heard it.
in a brighter moment i might sing.
in a brighter moment you might see me.

but for now, invisible,
i dance. my feet kiss the floor and my fingers kiss these keys and i am writing you the poem you wanted and waiting, waiting, always waiting.

you may not see me but i will write as if you do.

(a.m.)

sometimes i think
that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

in the ugly, unafraid, truth-telling part of my mind,
the part i seldom dare to visit,
i know this is not true,
know that you could never love me,
not now.

i can make myself,
as much as i like,
into wood to be whittled,
but i cannot make you crave those carvings.

you can lead a horse to water,
or whatever it is that they say.

but i fear i will always be a well run dry in your eyes
(or perhaps one that never had water to begin with).

so i combat this fear in the only way i know how:
by turning away from it,
pretending it does not exist.

by shrinking.

and sometimes,
sometimes,
when you don't seem as far away,
i think that if, perhaps,
i could shrink myself down into something a bit more beautiful,
then maybe you would love me.

(a.m.)

this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)

I’m ashamed to say I’ve become a bit of a thief;
A pickpocket of sorts.

It started out small.
A few roses from our neighbors’ garden, every now and then.
I knew it was wrong to take something that wasn’t mine,
But I fell in love with the way your eyes lit up
when I held out those little bits of stolen life, stolen joy.

It soon escalated after that.
I saw the way you gazed lovingly up at the moon,
and I became determined to make it yours.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried,
The moon remained unattainable.
(There is only one, after all.)
I figured I’d aim for the next best thing, so
I hope you like the stars I stole for you.