The grass is greener on my side,
this time
and it's freshly mowed,
releasing its scent into the noses
of the kids running up and down the streets,
screaming their praises to the god of summer,
and begging for just a little bit more time.
Steam rising from the burning pavement,
the smell of cookouts
the warm air
springing life to the city around me.

Riding in my car with all the windows down
screaming along to Say Anything
and feeling alive with the glory of love.
All of this creeping up on me
surprising me with its inviting grin,
everything is funny now
because all of this
always leads me
straight back
to you.

I dig my toes into the cold dark dirt
thinking to myself these words
that could never encompass
the taste of the atmosphere around me,
finally wrapping itself in a flannel blanket.
I feel like a broken record
scratching at the same chorus,
trying adjectives to describe the way
today smells like better times,
but I'm determined
and I'll keep trying
to make these times even better.

You finally called me,
after four years.
You said it was the only number
you had ever committed to memory,
and you were wondering if it was still
connected to me on the other side.
As it rang in my unsteady palms,
I thought to myself about how
you probably still cuff your Levi's
so that they hang above your
black and white Janoski's,
and write songs about lovers,
cruising the streets
listening to our favorite band,
that I only fell in love with
after you left.

You talked just like you did back then,
gently and sweetly,
and I was scared
because I knew how you used to
pull me in and never let me go.
We spoke about our separate lives,
and you said you didn't write anymore,
and it turns out
you only knew one album
by that favorite band
all along.
You told me you were happy.

I think we stayed together
out of fear, because
it felt like home,
and who wants to be homeless?
So I guess I'm still in love
with the old you
the thought of you
the person I could vent to
and I compare everyone I meet
to the person you were
before your taillights escaped east
into the New England fog.

There's this unspoken dichotomy
that exists in relationships
for those of us who struggle with their own minds.
And when I say dichotomy,
I mean there's absolutely no in-between
no third option
and no happy medium.
When you find someone who loves you,
and you love them equally as much,
this person will fall into one of two categories:
(because it can never be easy,
why the hell would it be easy?)

Category One -
they're mentally stable,
and you'll live in relative happiness,
but you'll never feel
like they truly knew you.
Or
Category Two -
They struggle just as much as you
and you'll always feel understood,
but you'll drag each other down
slowly but surely.

I don't know which is worse -
constantly living in fear
of scaring them away,
or learning to live in corresponding misery.
All I know is,
in the end,
everyone leaves,
so why wouldn't you?

My new home is quiet.
I can hear a train passing nearby,
reminding me that I’m not alone, with every burst of it’s horn.
I can hear him breathing heavily in the bedroom,
invested in a profound, deep sleep.
I’m envious of his casual flirtation with death, which I cannot achieve.
Sleep, to me, is a child’s mobile – just out of reach.
But when I finally grasp it, it all comes crashing down at once.
I watch as the room fills with light, hour after hour.

I just want to shut my ******* phone off and run away
to the farthest location I could dream up and feasibly travel to
maybe Canada
I heard Toronto is nice
from former friends and lovers
although, I know my seasonal affect would never forgive me for that.
But what a serendipitous chance to feel nothing -
wrapped in the numb, stagnant northern air,
the only escape from a perpetual hanging on by a fragile thread.

Wandering through the streets
partially sober and grasping at the fabric tethered to my jacket
which has just begun fraying slightly,
snipped, but not severed quite yet
clasping its fingers around that of her fraternal twin,
lacing knuckles -
gestures reserved for lovers and family
and held together by the promises we never keep.

Spinning out like Fibonacci
an equidistant and calculated spiral
but then it finally breaks
and the tension is relieved.

Time is the
unspoken promise
made to everyone,
swearing that
the future will be
ice cream on a summer day
(don't let it melt away)
but it's more of a
last-minute wedding gown,
uncertainly stitched
with the best intentions.
But love
is our desperate dance
until the end.

I feel like I owe this to you,
even though I don't know your last name.
I don't know how you smile
when he tells you that you're beautiful,
and I don't know how you feel inside
when you're both laying in bed at night
after he takes what he doesn't deserve.
I don't know how you'll react
when you're finally honest with yourself
and realize that he is a prizefighter
and being with him is like a boxing match,
that you won't win without a struggle.
And every time the bell sounds
you'll be less and less equip to defend yourself
the longer you allow him
to keep ******* at
your sense of self.

So let me be your cutman,
wiping the sweat from your brow
and strongly suggesting you forfeit;
because eventually
his charisma and charm
will seem like a distant memory
and you'll forget
why you started this fight at all.
I guess I'm just trying to say
get out with your integrity intact,
while you still can,
and I hope
you never have to feel
the way I felt.

The last time I was falling,
each memory
a pinprick
Talk into me and fill me
with kind observation
watch them come
and go
untied or cut free,
either way it looks the same
Overfilled
sure to burst
Hold me down or
I might float away
Would you come float
away with me?

When I get home,
no one will ask me, sweetly and genuinely,
“How was work today?”
I won’t tell anyone that it was rough,
I won’t cry into anyone’s chest.
No one will wrap their arms around me
and sing to scare my demons away.
No one will lay beside me,
As I drift off to sleep on the couch.
No one will tell me they love me,
no one will steal kisses on my forehead, long after I’ve started dreaming.
No one will make my house feel like home - and I don’t know if I can build a home without you.

When I get home,
no one will ask me, with alcohol soaked breath,
“Who else are you *******?”
I won’t have to argue,
I won’t shake and cower with fear.
No one will make me feel selfish
and say that I’m a ****** person.
No one will refuse to lay down beside me,
because it’s “all I ever do”.
No one will tell me I’m useless, lazy, and dumb,
no one will steal my free will, and drain every bit of energy from my body.
No one will make my house feel like a jail cell -
and I’ll have to build a new home within myself.

Sometimes I catch myself
wrapped up in the moments
when we were making up
my feet on your dash
going somewhere fast
all this frozen in my past -
the wind pounding through me
breathing in the warm air
always taking the scenic route.

I remember the small details
like your dimples
when a smile spread across your face
and the gap in your teeth
that I wished would stay.
You sang me to sleep
with that voice you hated
but it sounded like honey
to my ears, softly driving me
into your arms.

I've tried to erase
the memories of you
but that's just not something I can do
because every breeze of every season
smells like you
and everything we made each other do.
I know I was to blame
when you didn't feel the same,
and of course, I'm ashamed
of my past self
and maybe you are too.
But distance tricked us,
and I long for being a kid
slowly lowering my eyelids
as we drove past the power grids.

The breezes of spring
bellowing pitches from low to high
whipping through my tresses
that keep me warm inside,
giving movement to the rope swing out back.
A rotting apple nearby
(probably not ours)
and that bench in it's place with stories to tell,
where we spent sunsets
perched and burnt.
It all brings me back.

My eyes starting to water from smoke,
squinting through the hazy air
at the overcrowded couch - a war veteran
sitting proud in the center of the room,
holding up the unforgiving weight of teenage angst.
Visible scars,
a testament to its years served,
memories fixed with duct tape.
And I, sitting on the edge of a wooden dining room chair,
began to wonder how we all ended up in these places -
the couch, the youth,
the stains in the carpet,
the fly on the window sill
trapped between the panes,
unbothered and unnoticed.
I tipped my head back and ran my fingers
through my thinning hair,
closing my eyes to catch a glimpse
of tomorrow morning.

We were all younger
dumber
naïve
but the purest we would ever be.
Now I'm flying down 87
and I have to train my mind
not to wander without purpose
so I try to remind myself
that I've been back to those rooftops,
and I know
the air will never sink in as sweet
as when we were whole,
in years lost to the breezes of spring.

It hides in the spaces between
every adjective I spit out
like milk that’s gone bad,
patiently waiting
to lace its fingers around
the back of my neck
and pull me closer with
its newest allure
cigarette breath,
kiss me to death.

Nestled as a punchline,
after every minor inconvenience
like accidentally running out of gas
or driving past my old place
and knowing
someone else
lives there now.

Showing up
when least expected;
I find leftover bits of it,
stuck to me indefinitely,
like forgotten electrodes
glued to my body
I peel them off
one by one
but somehow
there’s always more.

Crash into me
riding your waves
and washing up
next to you
for as much time
as we can squeeze in.
Let me sink my feet
into your sand,
my roots
into your earth,
my fingers
into your skin.