In reverse of the waddle wheel
the landscape runs back in blow
of winds that take a hair threadlike’s hand
to dance a trickle of pathos
when I swallow.
Not thoughts of of prattle, but roars within struggle
as if time concreted through spaces, still,
to contingency thee confide.
What a subtle heaviness to stand where I shall revel
What a terrible freedom to know what I cannot sail

It’s gonna end.

But until now I can’t even tell
what I am missing,
for what, and by whom?

Star-speckled cheeks,
eyes deep as space,
smile bright like the moon,
waves like the sun,
shimmer ethereally in the light—
but I’ll always be eclipsed.

You’re Saturn,
and I’m stuck in your orbit,
just another stupid moon.
I’ll stretch to infinity to reach you,
but we’ll never touch,
’cause we’re on
completely different wavelengths—
always been fated
never to align
and always will be.

You’ll never tell me,
“Love you to the moon and back,”
yet every night I fall asleep
thinking of a star-speckled sky.

Your skin; your blood,
The tangles of your life,
Are simply, the most precious,
Of all that is heavenly.

The suns of distant worlds,
Are scattered across you,
And found in your bruises,
Freckles and scars a-many.

There’s a great universe,
Written out on your skin,
And it maps the pathway,
Of your true celestial body.

Let me see through your eclipse,
So I can read the constellations,
Like the life lines on your hands,
And finally see all the stars,

That you love to hide in shadow.

You are I
But who then am I?
You were me once
But cannot recall it
I watched me from afar
But couldn't say a word
You held my tongue
As I held your hand
You stumbled into place
Right where I stood
And I left myself
To become something new
But upon circling around
I found I was you

One of my classes has theater seating with little desks that two people share. I’m sitting by this huge man, who really should have a little desk all to himself. I don’t want to seem ungenerous but he just sprawls out like I’m not there.

So in a profoundly machismo gesture, this morning, I marked my territory with a pencil. It was carnal, feral, aggressive, and distinctly unfeminine gesture - more than a mere assertion of "First come, first serve" etiquette.

I’m familiar with life’s overlapping territories, like sidewalks, movie armrests and overhead bins and the subtle, shared space social negotiations when someone, say, introduces a laptop to a crowded library table and we all must  shuffle our stuff around or when someone desperately needs the only charger.

THEN, Friday morning big-guy starts this SUPER awkward conversation. To be clear - up until then - our ‘relationship’ had been blessedly non-verbal.

Let me tell it poetically..

He said he saw me signing in and timed it so I sat by him
he hoped to get to know me, and perhaps to ask me out.
They pass around these student info sheets, so we can form study cliques
and after a little bit, he smirkingly mentioned that he’d memorized my number.

Now, I’d barely even noticed him, I thought seating was left up to whim
before he could ask me out - I pointedly told him all about my boyfriend.
Now I’m sitting by a refrigerator-size guy who’s subtly giving me the eye
and as for his excessive use of space, I think he’s being passive possessive.

Monday morning before class, I’m going to catch the TA with her coffee and ask,
to change my seat to somewhere, anywhere, with someone, less transgressive.
I’ve been in classes, for years on end, I’ve been hit on and I’m not against making friends
but you have to know how to begin and not be so open, sneaky and aggressive.

I feel no enmity, just an awful awkward-ity and I don’t want him next to me.
Like the air-head I can pretend to be, I took a pic of him, disguised as a selfie of me.
If I’m ever concerned or slightly alarmed, I always manage to send a selfie to Charles.
.
.
Songs for this:
Messy by Lola Young
Every Breath You Take by Committed
Walk Like an Egyptian by Awaken A Cappella
.
.
Charles, a 55-year-old 6'4" retired NYC cop, has been my escort, driver, security and surrogate parent since I was 9 years old.

Where could I be lost?

There are distant sounds, maybe --


echoes of the void?

I sat by the fountain,
watching the sun play out
the last moments of summer
in the company of young and old,
each of us attracted to its laughter.

And a voice spoke out
of a corner of this retreated peace

"It's the end of something.
At least the start
of something ending.
It's the end of many things
that you've grown accustomed to,
that have grown around you
and within you - rooted.
And so you may wonder -
- will the roots simply die from neglect?
(Has that dying already begun
from past neglect? Discuss.)
Or will you have to find the will
to uproot them?
- will the pain be worth the excavation?
- will the freeing of them better free you?
Or will you one day be grateful
for the remains of what was?

"So, for now, carry the remains.
Carry the scars and the stains.
Walk with confidence through this ending."

I listened to the voice in the quiet.
And sat with the fountain a while longer.
Knowing I'll find the decision sooner
or later. For tomorrow, it was September.

I felt myself in the universe,
It was like the stars above,
Took me in as their own.
I was at home —
I was undisturbed; free.

As I wandered the celestial,
I was embraced by the void,
And loved by the emptiness.
I was at peace —
I was so careless; blind.

And in the warmth of the vast eons,
I lost myself in their touch;
A lonely, quiet death.
I was solus —
I was so afraid; caged.

Infinity was not forever,
By God, did I know better,
Still, I trusted the calm.
I was naive —
I was so hollow; bare.

Nothing became everything to me,
And who I was disappeared,
Claimed by space and vacuum.
It was perfect —
It was what I wanted.

Because,
I was loved by the emptiness.

And so too, was the emptiness,
Loved by me.