Lean a little closer now,
that’s it. Just so that our faces
are close enough that I can see
your eyelashes. Orange.

The table’s small, we’re barely
in the booth. Together at the end,
one on either side, long legs
stretch into the empty restaurant.

Our friend’s talk, and I lean in.  
You lean your head in too, to hear
the joke or story they’re telling. It’s
so familiar, but important somehow.  

Something’s said and we all laugh, normal routine.
You look at me, and I to you. Reactionary. Should we
—not anymore—yet still we do.

You’re wearing that gray shirt, the one that folds right
at the collarbone. I notice; I don’t mean to.
Your cheeks are white and smooth.

I’m wearing my blue jeans, the ones I that,
I know, are a bit too tight.
But I like that about them. I’d never admit it,
but I like the way they cling to me.

So lean in closer, I stay right there,
elbows perched, head turned. Long hair,
tucked behind my ears because
that’s how Mom made me wear it.

Comfortable, you touch my arm, but it’s measured out,
scaled down. You’re too careful now. Every word
a deliberate pace. It’s dangerous when two killers know,
the other’s preferred poison of taste.

But there are things you can’t control,
like when we’re sitting, at the booth’s end,
shoulder to shoulder, turned to our friends.

When we look, as look we always do,
I notice your seconds glance to my smile—
but it’s not my smile you’re looking to.

Saints have lips, and Holy Palmers too, I want to say,
but just for an instant, before I realize how
absurd it would be, quoting Shakespeare to you.

The check arrives and the bill is paid.
There’s no more time that glasses of water can buy.

The gang of us unfold from our little corner booth,
and out the door we go. Leaving behind us nothing
but crumpled napkins and  a salt shaker overturned.

I want to fall into the room with you,
pulling at our jeans and tee shirts
until we’re in nothing but our
white cotton underwear.

I want to forget about light switches,
cell phones, and my breathing.


I want you to have trouble with my bra,
fingers clumsy with the clasp.
You’ll mutter Jesus Christ,
and I’ll smile against your lips.

I want you to tangle your hands, in my curls
and I’ll spread my palms across your back,
mapping from your shoulders to your ***.

I want to run my hands down your
chest and see if your stomach tenses
when my fingers meet your boxer band.

I want to know the noises you’d make,
and see your face, when we fall together
into your twin bed, in nothing.

Knock on  my door,
when the wardens not here.

I swear I'd let you in,
let you turn me inside out. .

I swear we could do anything,
but right now you're nowhere.

Knock on my door,
before the warden gets here.

let us then digress into the earliest of pleasures
let us cover ourselves in dirt and grime
may we throw our tantrums well

let us then digress into the earliest of horrors
let us come to the edge of that tranquil pool
may we refrain from weeping at our reflection



it is so strange
this brilliance covering itself in mud
this gift bestowed to the broken
these blessed who break themselves at the sternum
these free and bleeding souls
those much too lost to ask for directions
those helpless meandering
beautiful minds

i. this poem is not about that thursday afternoon
you spent holding me in your arms, swaying
back and forth in the middle of your bedroom
because i mentioned that no one understood me
and you told me you liked my dark hair and
my olive skin and the fact that i wrote poems about
confused teenagers in love and that i had a heart
that was just as confused as yours was

ii. we whispered sweet nothings to each other and
kissed under your navy blue duvet for two years
and the reason i still cry over that is because
you knew how much i detested dancing and that
i hated when my peas touched my potatoes and
that i never went to bed before two in the morning,
but you never learned that i am an iceberg

iii. i asked you to describe me and you failed
to mention that i'm afraid of the dark because
it reminds me of a sky without stars and that
my favorite song is skinny love by bon iver
because it reminds me of the relationship that
i shared with you and you never understood
why i liked sad things (it's because i like the
way rainy days and sleepless nights make
me feel something worth writing about)

iv. this poem is not about love or heartbreak
but it is about you, and i must admit that it
feels awkward to write about you without
feeling any ounce of admiration or hatred
pulsing through my tired veins. this poem
is not about me missing you, or how i wish
that you still thought about me, because i
am glad that i no longer float across your
mind whenever you watch a baseball game

v. you were like the titanic and our feelings
were the ocean that carried you closer to me.
you saw the surface of my being, consisting
of all the things you liked about me and the
things that you could put up with. but your
ignorance became too much and every
quality you failed to pay attention to came
crashing into you all at once and i
absolutely destroyed you and i don't know
whether to say i'm sorry or
you deserved this

Soon our grinning skeletons will come all unhinged and slide out of our feet as the casual chunks of so much worthless debris. Contagious laughter can be rather gruesome. Blocks upon blocks of television viewing containers echo entire cans of it into increasingly apathetic orbs. Growing loud without purpose, it deafens all who will listen. There is, to date, no cure for this cancer. We don't even really know what we're dealing with here. It is recommended that all civilians tie their shoes tightly, with double-knots if possible.