I didn’t mean to say goodbye to you.
What I said, I thought would be a hello.
What I did, I hoped would make me see you more often.
When I dreamed, I always dreamt of you.

But it’s been an entire day, my love.
A day without one of your gorgeous hellos.
A day without your dance, a day without your hugs.

Today, I have been surrounded by love.
Today I am safe, I am happy,
but I don’t get to share it with you.
Today, was a goodbye.
And I’m sorry.
But I promise I’ll see you again soon.
Because I need you. I love you. I’m yours.

I want to be anywhere but here.

I want to walk the streets of Paris.
Pitter patter of heels clicking the pavement,
moonlight glowing on your skin,
bread waking us up in aroma cloud
just as the sun begins its rise.

I want to go on an adventure.
Let’s race to see who can get across
the bridge the fastest.
Teach me how to skip stones.
Will you give me a kiss
for each leap the little rock takes?
Pull me out of the water when I fall,
I want to walk across that log with you,
I want to go splashing in the puddles.

I want a quiet afternoon.
It could be dark and rainy,
we whisper the seconds in between the storm,
or the sun could shine,
brighter than you say my smile does.
I want to nestle into your body,
the blankets covering us both.
I’m melting into the pages,
another world a vivid dream inside my mind.
You read over my shoulder, making a mental note
to recreate the date on page ninety-four.

I want to be spontaneous.
Wake me up on a Tuesday, and tell me
we’re going for a photoshoot.
I’ll put my feet up on the dash,
Taylor Swift blasting from your speakers.
You can’t sing, nor can I,
but I’ll still laugh when you trip over the words,
no matter how loud and proud you yell them.

I’ll tell you how to pose,
chin up, no down,
a little to the left, there.
There.
Perfect.
We’re perfect.
Snap.
My favorite day now captured forever.
I brought the camera, but you have your phone.
Will you take pictures of me when I’m not looking?
Do I look beautiful?

Tell me about your dreams.
Tell me about your favorite fact,
the one that you learned in the third grade,
and is obvious now,
but completely blew your mind.
Did your friend teach it to you?
Who was the first person you had a crush on,
tell me about the time that they talked to you.
Did you know I used to want to change my name?
Did you know I’ve always wished we’d meet?
Did you know I long to fall in love?
Did you know I’m terrified that I’ll never get the chance?
Did you know I live in the present, mostly to escape the future?

I want to be anywhere but here.

This is an apology.

No, not a notes app apology.
You deserve more. This apology
is a thank you.

So thank you.
For being the people I needed, right before
I needed you. Thank you, for showing me
to the stars. Thank you, for teaching me
how to feel.

You arrived as a black wave, a dark abyss
coating the horrors yet unknown to me.
You held me near, a guidebook of pages.
I focused on you, blind to the evils surrounding me.

I loved you. I love you. I thank you.

The horrors haven’t left me.
I don’t think they ever will.
A mask will always hide my face,
I will always come running back to you,
I will always think of you when I’m alone.

But these days are brighter than when we met.
These days I look towards
the blue sky, not a dark wave.

These days I focus on joy.

These days, I let my love for you,
be a background, not my home.

So, to you,
I apologize, and I thank you.
For everything.

I opened the gifts one by one,
knowing that the softness I felt
under the antique Santa Claus paper
was yet another bundle of fabric,
more clothes to add
to my ever-expansive wardrobe.

One by one, the patterns were revealed to me:
some plain black cotton,
a Paris print with a sparkly pink tower,
paper cutouts the size of my favorite dolls,
and at last, a sewing machine.

I remember a roomless memory,
my mother and I hovered over the machine,
the internet failing to teach us
how to maneuver the thread.

“We’ll try again later,” she said.

Now, I open the drawer under my bed,
remove a dust-covered box,
running my fingers along the top of it.
I remove the as-new machine,
my failed future.
I walk to my computer, switch taps
from a Buddhism study guide
to an empty Google Docs.

I wonder if I was a seamstress in a past life.
Did I watch my family create the cave paintings
while I sat in the corner, hide on my lap
with a splinter of bone in my hand,
feeling nothing but bliss?

Did I live in the Edwardian era,
tailoring a perfect three-piece suit,
a walking skirt, my daughter’s chemise?

Did I ever pass my grandmother
in a secondhand store,
with my goal of finding a perfect neckline,
my favorite sleeves, a plaid pattern.

Did I find them among the stained and unloved,
did I make them into something beautiful?

Was this not a flashback, but a foreshadow?
Was this a hint at my next life?
Will I do the same with my daughter,
passing down the cotton and glittered tower,
hugging with triumph when the machine roars to life?

Will I be there at her first fashion show?

What if there is no past or future.
What if my soul is me, unchanging, stable.
What if I’m a butterfly,
every passing second another cocoon?

For I am a tree,
and these memories
are my branches.

My left arm holds the present,
the current reality. I fail to sew
even a button, but my dreams
reside content.

With my right arm,
I hold another present,
equally as real.

In this world, I made my doll a dress,
a bedspread with the leftover fabric.
In this world, I am not a poet,
and I don’t often dream.
In this world, my floor is my stage,
this fabric is my home.
In this world, I know not of other realities.
In this world, I live buried in my ignorant bliss.

A marbled masterpiece,
a wanderer exploring ice
which floats among the stars.

Oh to smile
at the twinkling lights of a city,
a little village town.

To feel the wind
brushing my hair
like a man his favorite companion,

the boat cutting through water
like a knife scraping a slice
of fresh Italian bread.

No, today I didn’t watch the sunset,
no flamingo clouds
with starburst hues.

But today was filled
with my favorite trilogy:
art, wisdom, and love.

You’re just a person.

You’re chill, and calm, bending down
to put a band aid on our scraped knee.
Telling us you know it hurts, but the jelly
will **** the bacteria. We ask
“what is bacteria?” You tell us.

It’s simple, yet complex.
Millions of little societies on our skin,
in our hair, on the pavement.

You teach us
through our tears
the world’s beauty.

But then, you’re just a person.

You can be a firecracker, yelling expletives
as you stub your toe, at the mess in the living
room, at how we messed up an already
imperfect world.

You can be so excited to do the thing
that you never explain to us
what that thing is.

You want to do it all,
and you want to do it all
right now.

And I realize, you’re just a person.

You have hard days. You forget to drink water.
You love the feeling of printed pages underneath
your fingertips.

You have to hold back tears letting go
of those who’ve wronged you.

But you laugh. And you care.

And you’re a person.

You’re no different from the stranger at the house
three doors down. You’re no more worthy
of telling your stories then they are.

You’re just a person.

I tell myself that one day, maybe I should
knock next door, ask if I can come inside,
and see what they have for a story.