I was waiting for you to turn back
Maybe that one last time that would make me stop you from leaving
I know you didn't want to look back and show me your tears
But I could feel them in my eyes as you walked away
I also know that you looked back, hoping I would be waiting
Because you were tired of the pain
But just because our story didn't end well
I don't regret it
It's still the most beautiful one I know
Maybe when it rains for us, again
Or maybe when the night seeks the light again
We'll meet, we'll love
And will be one again

when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,
when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...

when your words don’t mean much to them,
stop talking, stop arguing
when your actions can’t be seen by them,
stop trying, stop wasting your energy
when your emotions start to groan,
don’t let them build,
you know they’ll eat you up alive,
when you can’t get to a target,
even though you try over and over,
start looking for meaning in the path instead,
when you can’t get over someone,
start reminding yourself that you can,
because you know you can.

it’s november when
the meds kick in, it’s
december when i feel
human again. (or maybe,
for the first time?)

i lack less.
found an appreciation
for something or another
dug up in the front yard
by a half-blind dog.
appreciation for
the living
and the
quiet
small
moments.

i used to know empathy,
used to take her hands
between mine in
cut scenes
but those were
   trembling eras
    of seconds,
    caught between
  an intensity i’ve since
        given     away.

an inferno.

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet-
ween
high
ways
and

last bit
of clouds
eating sun
like nectar
in the rearview:

or sweet talking
directly into his eyes
at midnight, hearing
a smile in the smoke
that separates our
houses.

cats with twigs
and dirt swimming
in their bellies.
ghosts in the
woods beyond
my car,
yowling at
the full moon
as if they
were born
to.

i now know
the silence and
warmth of
sleep.

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm,
a quaint silence
that does not
burn at the
                 touch.





but

the world is
almost softer
            almost
                       lighter   --

my skin is
held to-
gether
with
some
thing
more
than
glue.

     (maybe
      stitches?)

i wonder
if i was
human
the whole
time.

I lay my foot here
On the traces of the side
And follow the floor
As if it is a guide.
It's sort of a game
I like to play with the stone
Whenever I am walking alone.
Maybe they see me
Skipping always twice
And following the sidewalk
In a strange zigzag
But maybe they don't mind.