i hold onto
the way the air feels in october
it brings out the best in me
unlike the violating heat
of august that fills the space between
the dirt and the heavens
only a handful of moons prior to
the golden treetops and the
ritualistic pumpkin and maple
that stir our hearts and reveal
our need for stupid, cheery things

the earth is falling asleep
lying its head to rest
in the fading foliage on the ground
folding up the day into smaller
and smaller glimpses of light
but here i am
bathing in the soft wind
here i am
grinning in a grey sweater
here i am
waking up

the bits of apple
between my crooked bottom teeth
remind me of all the homes i’ve lived in
or almost lived in
that have left a sweet but spoiled taste in my mouth
as they rot just under my nose
i have yet to find a place to rest my head
not a clean pillow or warm chest would welcome my cheek
but i have looked and obsessed and tried
i have tried
my fingers ache from all the golden knobs i’ve reached out to
just to have them slammed in the door
again and again and again and againandagainandagain
the wide and narrow roads are lined with
quaint front porches and crooked mailboxes
they are bursting with life
sad ones and dramatic ones and unremarkable ones
gasping and pulsing and humming
but there is nothing suited for me
all the welcome mats have been flipped over
before i clear the front step
so i keep running my tongue over the bite of longing
in places i rather not be

right now would be a great time to write poetry
it’s past midnight, everyone is asleep
there is a pale blue light coming from the hallway bathroom
my thoughts are lingering in distant, buried places
recalling nightmares as dreams
drawing halos over the heads of humans
but i don’t want to
i am tired
and bored
and afraid my words will smell like stale clichés
maybe i can just dip my toes in reflective black holes
feel the coolness, the deadness
the other world i’m too afraid to fall into
like quicksand or riptides or working nine to five
maybe i can lean in, just enough, to get a glimpse
of what i do not want

i promise i don’t think of you.

i have paid the fines
of dozens of overdue library
books i never finished reading.
i love reading.
i love curling up
in a big leather armchair
while the sun reaches out
to me through the window
as time slows
and my coffee grows cold.
but tolstoy and fitzgerald
sit on my shelves
or in my purse
carried everywhere
and collecting dust.
i can see the silhouette
of who i would like to be.
the curve of her hips
the stillness of her limbs.
she grows her own herbs
and tries out new recipes
while her husband is at work.
she doesn’t mind driving
for hours alone
and enjoys singing
along to the radio
going five under the speed limit.
she is not in a hurry.
she is proud
and sure
and poised.
she reads books and returns
them on time.
she gave up on dreaming
and hoping
and longing
and finally began
living.

i do not speak your name
i cannot even whisper it
instead, i hide it in my dreams
under my sheets
beneath a sky that sees all
but does not burn my skin
do you ever wonder
what the moon is thinking?
does she gaze down solemnly and see
a fading opus
or a symphony simply tightening its strings
for the final act?
do you think it makes her sad
to see the greens replaced
with soot and plaster
the seas rising to meet her
with an apocalyptic kiss?
the falling tide
the slow recession
reminds me that
she keeps our secrets
but i think it breaks her heart

i could be that girl
whose voice is low and melodic
and coats your mouth with
acacia honey
whose eyes are the color
and depth of
midnight
whose presence is thick like
new york summers
rosy like
los angeles in early spring
if i braid flowers into my hair
if i write enough poems
if i learn to show the skin of my essence
but remain an abyss—
i will stop making art
when i become it

if you look up, you will see
the bright-eyed and
the wide-mouthed—
the interesting, the casual, the adored
glistening in the warm night
peered at through microscopes and
telescopes and stethoscopes
far and far away

we are so desperate to be close
close and close and
close enough to see the blemishes
the scarring and the peeling
effaced by obvious and biased inner-commentary
they’re just not as red or sore as mine
perhaps they were formed under
a different kind of sun

what does the unfamiliar heart say?
does it sound at all like mine?
will i ever escape the sloppy grasp of dullness?
will the world swallow me whole?
if i count the days on both hands
on toes, on eyelashes—
if i only eat green things and
read tattered books and
pretend that i don’t mind—will i ever
break the mirror?
will i find seven years of good luck
between the jagged edges?

to exist as a reflection
is to not exist at all
there are lonely, dark purple heavens
waiting for you to sever your longing gaze
to stop lying to yourself
to hop onto the back of the cow
and begin living somewhere beyond the moon—
to realize, with closed eyes
you belong to the sky