i was lost at sea,
dying of thirst
and you were the saltwater.

i drank you up
like boiling water,
dribbling over
the corners of my mouth
you were everywhere at once,
heat spreading through
my every limb,
sparking my nerves
with your cheshire grin.
we did not know what love was
how could you teach me what you did not know?
how could you convince me
when you did not love your own mother
that you loved me?
you showed me what love was not:
love is not ownership
love is not adrenaline
love is not ***
i still don't know what love is.

I saw her
yesterday
climbing the stairs,
outrunning the blonde cascade
tumbling down, down
down her shoulders
outrunning me. I should have
known I’d never be safe
or good,
or sensible, not
with her in the room
I can’t move,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t speak.
She has me liquified
she’s an artist,
so I let her do
what she does to me
because maybe this is
my highest purpose,
to be her paint
for I love the feeling
of her brushstrokes
so I let her
muddle me into elemental puddles
and I’m glad of it, too.

and blood is shrieking in my cheeks
a concert of passion, ushering tears
the sudden pressure suffocates every
word trapped in my throat
and I desperately want to scream
at you
in hot pent-up pain
that if I didn't love you
with every ounce of myself,
I wouldn't care -
I wouldn't get angry
or speak before thinking
or cry into your shirtsleeves -
but I do care
enough that I can't hide
the mess you make of me.

Your shirtsleeves are wet
with every word I wish I didn't say
and I look away, hoping that if
I don't see you, then you won't see
me.
But you stare,
and you do what I should,
thinking hard before you speak.
When you finally do,
I could cry all over again
because I still taste love on your lips
after I've ruined myself again and again
and again you show me
you are heaven on earth
as the dirt from which my soul was made
is flooded with the stardust in yours.

I sat by your porch and
watched the flowers I left
wistfully wilting with every
passing hour
of the time you couldn’t spare me
and it felt like tar
on my tongue
when I wanted to say I loved you
and instead swallowed
lumps
of snot and tears.

Melancholy coats cars like pollen,
smudging windows and mirrors,
making vision hazy
dripping from faucets like
incessant spacey teardrops.
It hangs just in front of your
eyes and
curtains their shining irises; it
sneaks through your lips in
whispered goodbyes.
When you leave, it
holds my cold hands
and plasters traces of you
to every square inch of my imagination.
At night, it counts
the ceiling tiles, then the floor
and listens in the morning
to my dreams from the night before.
Melancholy swells for miles between us, keeps
a seat empty next to me, and always
hopes for you.

i gathered all the things that mattered most
and made a list.
i traced it in the sand
and carved it in a tree
and stamped it on my skin.
and then you
came, with your fire and flood
your tidal waves
your wildfires
your torrential deluges
you washed away those fickle memories
and i danced in your storm.
i danced on a barren beach,
by burnt trees, as the
ink trailed down my arms.
but your fire did not burn for me,
your rain did not pour for me,
you just were
and i
had the pleasure of dissolving
on your shore.

it's so hard to forget
the curve of your mouth
the words that you spoke
the way they gently passed through your lips
it's harder than remembering
the words i wrote down
scribbling furiously
trying to make sense
of a world
that never stops talking
the roar is nothing short of deafening,
yet i can still pick out
your voice
as i copy down the words
i wish you had said
instead of the ones you did
after all,
that's what writing is for
recording dreams
alternate versions of
reality
reflecting something prettier
than the naked eye could see
the words i wanted
would have sounded much prettier
on those lips of yours
but i look up from my dreamy scribbles
and remember
i am still awake

You emerged from the breaking dawn
glittering to rival the rising sun.
Molten gold dripped
from the tips of your fingers;
shimmering dust encrusted your footprints.
Had our paths not crossed,
I'd not be frozen here;
a statue of fool's gold,
the work of your touch.
But I'm stuck in your kingdom,
watching the golden age
waiting until you wash your hands in the river
and come back to me —
you are cursed with the Midas touch,
and I am cursed for making you king.

Midday is almost dark; the
ashen sky holds its breath
rain buzzes between cloud and sun
leaves drift, blurred,
in slow frames through molasses space
to kiss the sidewalk with
thundering authority.
Between the daisies, lightning sprouts and splits,
spitting stripped splinters into heaven
then pausing, fingers frozen, posed –
a portrait of aloof elegance.
Midday is blinding, deafening,
nature's cinematic masterpiece:
terrifying, thrilling, and everything but numbing.

We do not say
what we mean, because
what we mean is so heavy
and gravity is so real.
We are not strong.
We cannot utter the words
that press so heavily on our tongues
until they gag us –
instead, we savor those
artificial sweeteners as
every day we grow thinner
and make no progress
toward lifting the weight of truth.
It bides its time in that dark corner
listening to the tales we spin
laughing at our efforts to clothe ourselves
with lies.
Once in a while it pokes out its head
timidly
but we are too prone
to smacking its ugly head
back into submission
and talking louder, louder, louder

mulberry street after dark
broken locks on the bridge
discarded heart-shaped locket
picnic blanket on the grass
you and i,
skipping rocks,
i think about how they
sink and settle,
destined to kiss
the murky lake's floor
you and i,
naming the stars
who are we
to think we know them?
to us, they are no farther than the moon
as finite as the glittering streetlights
less comforting, more enigmatic
we watch the sky ripple on the lake,
i wonder if we'll see a shooting star -
what are the odds?
maybe if there were a
meteor shower, we
could wish a hundred wishes
yet we'd never wish
for the same thing
soon the sun will rise, cloaking the stars,
you'll follow her, and
i'll follow the moon
perhaps i'll see you across the galaxy
and nod for rocks sleeping
'neath the lake at mulberry street

and I don’t know why.
I woke up with pins and
needles, and they’ve been aching since.
I’ve barely walked, at least
not more than normal
but they feel as if they might
crack and bleed.
They hurt more knowing
all the things you had planned for us -
skipping and jumping and dancing
and laughing
and though I’ve cried to them
they just won’t let me go.
All I can do is
apologize to you and your
runner friends
for everything I can’t
bring myself to do.

I walked for miles to get here
suffered blisters and beating sun
a torn piece of notebook paper crumpled in my hand
I waited at your doorstep
hesitation always by my side
reading the words on the paper over and over again.
I waited on you
was I a fool, blindly hoping?
Or were you cruel, crushing trust?
The truth is probably somewhere in between.
I didn't doubt your good intentions
until I pounded on your door
with shaking hands
waited
waited
no response.
It was later I learned
you'd moved across the city -
a more determined woman
would square her shoulders
pick up her paper
and walk the distance.
But I am not she
I am just a girl
my feet ache
the sun has burned my skin
and after all I have given you
I should not be chasing you.

It rained
and rained
for months on end
I was fine with the rain
until I was standing
alone
and it began to storm.
I was shaking
beneath the weight
of my umbrella
that I stubbornly clung to
until one day
rain, rain
finally
it went away
never
to come another day
everyone told me
the skies could only get bluer
and the sun
proved them right
as it broke
through the clouds
and I saw
a rainbow:
you.

Tonight I'll wear
the black dress that never left my closet
hear it rip when the
backs of my thighs meet the cold piano bench
my stiff fingers will scratch the keys,
eliciting aching ivory groans
I'll wear it in the shower and shiver
as icy water skims my skin
I'll press our polaroids to my tongue
and chew you up
you'll stick to the roof
of my mouth when I swallow
and my skin will turn angry red
because my body always knew
what a bad idea you were.
I'll wear my youth like a medallion
hanging where my heart should be
and soon my red eyes will
forget what it feels like to blink.
The hairs on my arms will
stand on end as my
fingernails scrape the tile on my bathroom floor
tracing the lines of old poems I burned
in your fire.
I'll bite my cracked lips, just to
remember what regret tastes like
and with hot blood fresh on my tongue,
I'll stumble to your empty house
drag my bare feet in your driveway and
silently beg you to ask me how I am.
I'll shatter your bedroom window and
almost glimpse you through the haze and
when my knees buckle I'll
collapse where your bed used to be
and for a split second
I'll think it was you beneath the sheets.
Aren't I beautiful, darling?
I wore this dress for you

i got a new pen for christmas
and i love it.
it glides over paper
like a cosmic match,
its perfectly pigmented partner.
but i have the same notebooks
and i write the same things
dreaming the same dreams
with a new pen in hand.
at least your name
will be just a little bit more beautiful
as i trace it once more,
tear out the paper,
crumple it up,
and start again.

His voice rolls steady across my
skin, mimicking
the hair that curls so shyly
at the base of his neck.
It flips my stomach
and screams sight into my eyes,
and it takes everything in me
not to cry like I've never seen in color
before.
He tells me he doesn't dance, except
I can see it in the way he moves, when he
laughs or smiles or says my name; I know he
does
so I promise myself I'll
dance with him someday.
And with his hands pressed to my heart,
he gently erases the
grey skies from my old
paintings, rewriting
the ends of all my poems
and brushes his signature
on every one I’ve yet to write.
He
softly shines on my tired garden,
turning it greener than his
eyes as he
breathes my next breath
into my lungs. And I slowly realize
for all the years I knew him and did not love him,
I was seeds, in soil, shadowed, and
to love him is to see the sun.

you can scream at the universe softly
to please, let it happen
just this once -
that you would get what you want
you can stomp on the ground
slam both feet into the Earth
and it won't move
you can try to tell the sun
just how badly it burns
but when it finally sets
your skin will be red and
peeling
you can try everything
and you will
but maybe some things are
unlearnable
and wishing never goes away
maybe you have bad luck
but you can never fix the world around you

we'll glide into the next decade
like we own it
skating on razor blades,
twirling knives like majorettes
what is there to be afraid of?
you leave a funny taste on my lips,
like nightshade or something i wasn't
supposed to eat.
i like waiting with you
parked in your car by the bus stop,
talking about pseudo-psychology and
goodbyes,
which one is real and which is a
scam
it's 2 a.m. now,
and i'll be up again in 4 hours.
that's just enough time to
listen to your favorite album
and tell me what you dreamed about,
and catch the bus before sunrise.
i haven't slept in –
oh, i don't know.
i've been up with—thinking of—
you
the idea of you
and me have been up all night,
waiting at that **** bus stop.
the unholy voices whispering to me
sound just like you.
they—you— make my head spin
when i think too hard
about who you are—
are you my punishment,
some divine, poetic justice,
for an act i've committed?
am i to be driven insane,
tantalized, eternally unable to eat or drink,
with food and water just out of reach?
maybe so, but maybe
insanity is letting
someone like you
disappear.

I won’t forget to
mention how I
hate your asymmetrical gait; it
offsets my lucent cynicism
and offers me seasoned lucidity
which I already told you I don’t want.
I’ll continue to make
my disjointed offhanded comments,
thank you,
much to the vexation
of my sharply shrinking social circles.
Advice has always been icing on
cake which I
scrape off with a knife and
use for shape-making on
the edge of my paper plate
as the other party goers
advise me not to play with my food, it’s
childish.
And rude.
And anyways, who doesn’t
like icing?

Brilliant Annie,
with dried watercolor on her left thumb, and
charcoal smudge just below her elbow
who are you painting now?
Heart-shaped lips and
round, rose cheeks -
I've almost forgotten the sound of your voice -
what do you whisper in your sleep?
I remember your shadow perfectly, Annie,
I spent years frozen there,
I know its curves and the way
it moves when you laugh.
I'll admit I hated it there,
but I could never quite keep away from you.
Lovely Annie,
with guitar-calloused fingers
and songs tucked beneath your tongue,
who do you write about now?
Maybe you write about me,
like I do you,
maybe I appear in your dreams
and touch your hand,
like you do in mine.
Sweet Annie,
do you still put your index finger to your nose
and smile when you're listening?
Do you still go to concerts of bands
you barely know?
Do you still push your glasses up the bridge of your nose
and tuck your hair behind your ear
when you're thinking too hard?
Of course I shouldn't be thinking of you,
Annie,
after all these years
I'm hundreds of miles away
and you're probably smoking in a parking lot
thousands of years from thinking of me.
Beautiful Annie,
you probably don't even remember me
but I could never forget you.

I glimpsed you
for a moment
miles away,
across a tangled knot of time.
In front of you,
shadows melted into obsoletion
obscured by sweet rays
radiating from every surface
of your skin.
I didn't realize
I was grinding my teeth
until I felt you
in the enamel, at my gums
so I dropped my jaw
to let you in.
And you entered,
stage left,
the impassioned playwright
determined to turn my past
from a ledger of mistakes
into the prologue
of a beautiful, convoluted fairy tale.

I love you most now
as I kneel on bathroom tile
cold and vomiting, your palm just
above the small of my back
spreading fire and forgiveness
and hope and healing
through every trembling muscle.
I love you from
the sixteenth floor of my apartment,
as I careen towards the pavement below
because you've always been there
with open arms
even when you aren't here.
You wondered one time,
what would it be like
if we started over?
But I know now more than ever
we need every broken bone
and every sawed off cast,
with our Sharpied signatures
in high school handwriting
in order to love each other
as fiercely and messily
and fearfully and soulfully
as we do.
Because you hold all my mistakes
and all my forgiveness
as you envelop all of me
and I you.

Wear me tonight
in your front pocket,
pressed against your chest
like a dead flower
against fresh linen.
Pull me from Eden for purpose,
and when the sun strains against the horizon,
sew my shaking roots into soil
and forget you ever knew my name.

you should see the way the
sunflowers swivel to stare at you;
your shadow outshines the sun.
you walk through beehives and
emerge dripping in honey.
haven't you noticed the
sparrow on your windowsill; she
sings her sweet song
solely for your sake!
and the wildflowers that
blossom in your footprints
and the wavelets that ripple
from your words —
don't you hear your name beneath the
rustling of the leaves and the
crackling of the fire and the
whistling of the wind?
if nature marvels at the
magnificent masterpiece you are, then
so should you

since we learned to speak, we have only
spat out the words before us
repeating remarks we hear and see
with impotent intonation;
the pretense to make it our own
we are watery reflections
longing to move freely, by ourselves;
to feel the wind whip wildly 'round
to scrape our knees on uneven ground
but we lie on the surface,
repetition rippling through our shallow skin
perhaps, one day, we shall learn
to stand
and to create

When I was fourteen, I had
two feet of spectacularly boring *****
blond hair until
I cut off a foot and a half.
I used to reach for it
absentmindedly in the shower or
brushing my hair and
I cried today thinking
one day it will be your hand that I
reflexively reach for, only to
squeeze empty space.

I never told you how
your room looks just like you.
I can't help but notice its
soft edges and
angles,
and the way the mountains swell
determinedly outside the window
across from your bed.
When it's quiet enough, I can hear
your heart beating like music
from your chest of drawers.
The mismatched knick-knacks atop
your tenderhearted wooden nightstands
and I
watch you as you read, and we
try not to smile
as the lighting obliges
to make you
the central, most beautiful feature.

A couple falling in love, first date,
another falling out, last fight.
Two boys playing chess,
a girl hungry, won't eat,
a reader, a writer,
an ocean full of thoughts,
and the rare listener.

Dramatic irony flowed freely
from all the poems I wrote
about how I didn't write poems about you
and wedged itself in the spaces
between my heartbeats.
And there you slept sweetly
warming my aching ribs and
getting drunk on my tears every night I
awoke weeping
for the miles between us,
and all the purported reasons I shouldn't love
you.
Now poetic justice tumbles forward
from desire into delight
it’s plastered to my skin
and it feels just like you.

I’m too in love, honey,
I can’t breathe when I see you
I’m flattened by you
and I stare at the sky
like I’m pavement
created by man
and screaming for more
than calloused tires.

they say perfection
is nonexistent, but
i have learned
it is relative.

we seemed the perfect match:
i loved to talk about you
and so did
you.

if hell is personal,
i will spend eternity
swimming in a burning lake
of missed opportunities
and souls i did not save

You lost me, philosopher,
but did you read the poems?
You won’t, lest you remember
I reminded you again
your guilt is trickling down
like condensation on the fridge
onto the sticky note that says
remember to fix the fridge -
that’s a poem, isn’t it?
Or you philosophize it so;
I think you think
all my words to be poetry,
and I dangle, threaded
in your memory:
that’s why it grieves me such to
say, read the poems,
lose me not.

like me, you are
made of words
so will you
embrace
your roots?

Our souls were made of
the same stuff, perhaps literally
I can feel it when you cry
or hit the brakes too hard.
And you -
you've always known
what I needed before I did.
You would trip me and
break my fall in the same breath
and you knew I'd
do the same for you.
But somehow decades of
sharing clothes and video games
kitchen fights and hospital visits
twin beds and ***** dishes
brought us here
to an airport
and even after you leave,
it won't be real
I'll still be waiting for you
to walk through the front door
and tell me to do the laundry
and you'll be in a bigger bedroom,
wishing for the chair from
your parent's house.
But we'll still watch the same movies
and I'll be there when
you break your leg or
your heart and you'll
still call when
you can't remember what that
one song is called
or just to say goodnight.
Because without you
I couldn't have ever been
myself, and we
know somehow that we
haven't really
ever been apart.

I've been circling the drain
for a while now,
screaming at you because
you look just like me.
when I get out I'll
try new things,
like papaya and cigarettes.
I won't like them but you
won't stop me anymore
I'll converse with the dead roses
on the vanity, ask them
if they knew they'd die,
from the moment they met your fingertips.
They won't say anything, because they're dead
and they're plants.
Maybe I'll become an anarchist;
I'll abandon that old idealism
of true joy and technology,
of solidarity and sovereignty
I'll try out lobotomy
and I won't wonder anymore
how you'd answer
those questions that rotted
in the back of my mind.
But before I do, I might
walk for a month,
day and night, all the way to
your house, only to find it inhabited
by someone new
and I'll be reminded that it might be time
for me to go,
and never come back.

fire danced
so elegantly
in your eyes

while my house was burning

and the match
was clenched between
your teeth

Euphoria sewed her golden ecstasy
in the scathing arms of the sun
we knew our world was hers when
the last of the ocean had evaporated
and we had drunk our tears away
with nowhere and nothing to hide
we joyfully traipse through desert heat
like newlyweds, heading towards the Honey Moon
singing dead romantic words
of antiquated crystalline towers
where young maidens once were trapped
'til summer sounded her blissful clarion
and her castle melted into the fallow earth:
this is the beginning of a new era
of heavenly heat
we will all burn together.

i was once the well-worn book at your
bedside,
and then i was the last chapter
of the book you were afraid to
finish.
now i am a dusty journal,
hidden away with lock and key.
you do not know what to do with me.
i hold your memories
your secrets
your fear and your desire
if you did not want me
printed on the back of your mind,
you should not have filled me with your words
or stained my pages
with your touch.
you wrote these words, darling,
in fountain pen;
i cannot be erased.
you will not throw me out
you will not burn me
you will not rip my pages
you will never forget me.

The space between
my stomach and happy is
red ugly hot.
I feel my heart beating there,
thumping and stabbing
that is why I press my lips together
at the dinner table
and don't touch my food.

Months I spent
building our dream
on the words you spoke
your promises,
my solid foundation.
You watched me labor,
encouraged me.
It was a beautiful dream,
but I did not know
it had always been larger than reality.
You were never interested
in something so fantastic.
The sigh I breathed
was enough to send it
crumbling to the ground
and reveal underneath
the rocks that I had built upon
were sand from the beginning.

you're not going to ask me why
I'm
picking away the scab on
the back of my hand,
though you can see in my eyes how
it hurts
as they spill salt water into
my open wound
because nothing has changed
I still won't let myself get better