Normally this isn’t the way it goes, but this time I’ll do differently
And so I ask who are you? What is your name?
Do you like running? I do as long as I can breathe

I dream of a day where I can run freely in silent poplar forests without my lungs weighing me down

What is your favorite kind of music? Do you like pop, rock, or hip-hop?
Is your soul kneaded and worked by tender hands like Jazz? Swing?

I may not look the part, but I love classical music; there’s something about listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes that makes me feel as if I am right there with him, sitting in the pews of an abandoned church whose dead parishioners long ago grew bored of contemplating their sins. I feel as if I am gently sipping his breath like one would coffee that’s still a bit too hot, savoring the stories he weaves out of thin piano strings that taste like moonlight
It is a flavor that seldom is tiresome
I wish I could cook some for you

If you could go anywhere, anywhere in the world, where would it be?
Would you roll into an airport with your luggage in New York? Tokyo?
Would you brave the crushing heat of Cairo for a glimpse of Giza?

I would go anywhere, anywhere you’d like, as long as we come home
I’ll open the door and immediately turn on the space heater—I can sense you hate being cold
While the tea is warming on the stove, we’ll talk about your favorite artist’s best album
Listening until we’re interrupted by the shrill shriek of a teapot needing attention
And that night I will dream that my footsteps will never be lonely

I’m terribly sorry, who are you and what is your name?
I do not know; you are there and I am in here; my mouth is so dry it hurts

Neither coffee nor alcohol can spur me to action
There is nothing I can drink
I can imagine, but I will never ask
I already have, so many times

If I loved you more like grace did
would we have made it?

                                                           Hey you, guess we're talking again?
                                          I can't say I understand where this came from.


Me.

I could say I am sorry,
But I am not.
Because on the one hand it is a choice,
(But then again it isn’t.)
It’ll take me 3 months and 22 days,
a caloric deficit of 700,
7 hours of gymnastics a week,
half an apple instead of one,
skipping lunches three times a week,
discipline, motivation and strength,
but one day, I will be where I want to be.

I have a goal, a very specific number,
and as for now, it’s all just in my head,
and –actually- I’ve never really liked numbers ,
in school I always hated maths,
but - since I’ve started measuring every inch of happiness,
since I keep my feelings locked up in measuring cups,
I cannot imagine living without them anymore.
It feels good to have a goal again.

So, when I pinch my skin,
and cry myself to sleep at night over a *******,
when I hate myself for being myself,
I could say that I am sorry,
to me, to anyone.
But the truth is, I am not.
Not yet.
I still have a goal to finish.

grounded in this reality
always, something keeps me. today it is my jeans, digging into the soft skin under my belly, reminding me
this world was not crafted around my form

There is no darkness, no fearsome
emptiness we allude to as
an excuse for sadness. We ne’er come
into the light each of us has.

Those restless nightmares, too evil
for scaring us into shameful
weak banality, so we will
live cautiously and shift blame still.

Where has your hope gone? Did you cast
it out of you, like some demon
you could not exorcise too fast?
It’s there, in the world you dream in.

Lazy darkness comes, too easy,
while to make light needs energy
of asking for life to “please be
constant inspiration for me.”

Reveling in
Simple things
Loved before they're gone

Playing down
Entropy
For the moment
We should let it go

Aware of
All the things
Thing's I can't control

In finding
Evidence
Of another
Brighter type of dawn

Out here
Past the point
Never quite alone

Resonate
In bitter sweet
Little moments
In the undertow

Aware of
All the things
Thing's I can't control

In finding
Evidence
Of another
Brighter type of dawn

out of the window
heat merged in white
and there’s nothing I want
the world to supply
or take from me now
I’ve opened my eyes

     she locks the door
     and knows the way she’s moving
     and we both know this is all
     that’s keeping us from leaving
     as we go down to the floor

           (now I see, as it gets dark
            and she’s away, I’m in the room,
            there’s nothing here of what was then
            except these facts I’ve placed in lines
            and keeping hold of what we’ve had; and her return
            and only that)

there’s nothing that I care for
but resumption of these feelings
and will throw the things I promised
far from any stretch of reason

and let them be discovered
by whoever wants to see them
burning
and broke open
as I listen to her breathing