And what do you do
when the world’s your oyster?
If only it were as light
and as pretty as the pearl,
I’d hold it up to the sun and praise its
ethereal form.
Or if it would open
as easy as a picture book,
I'd read every word and know just what to do.
Instead, I stand on its dirt
and wonder how I could ever
build a castle out of it.

You kiss me the way
you set the sun:
Deliberately sinking me further
down, then leaving me
suspended just beneath you.

Your mouth smothers mine,
cushioning the sound of explosions.
Nails etch a language onto our skin
leaving raised lines of calligraphy
that we'll read in the morning with a smile.

The problem with having one life
is having to choose
which life to live.

And the problem with soul mates
is having to choose
which one to love
and which to never meet.

There has to be a better way.

You could be a beekeeper on Mondays,
a violinist on Tuesdays,
a mother of three on Wednesdays,
and the greatest boxer since Ali on Thursdays.

On Fridays, your heart would belong to
the handsome attorney two doors down.
Saturday would come, and you’d fall into
the arms of your old Philosophy professor from university.

What would you choose to do
with all of your Sundays?

There you are again,
you old, reincarnated love.
Showing up in new faces
and handing me a token
of your affliction:
your half-empty glass,
a leaf ripped from its limb,
your one-way ticket to a place
I won’t be.

Here we are again,
walking down the street
under wet trees and lit balconies
as if we’re falling in love.  
You try to convince me you’ll
stay this time,
but I see the itch in your skin
to leave as soon as you realize
I recognize you.

And I do.
You’re a fiery first-kiss.
A five-day affair. Maybe this time six.
A reality check.

Light beams and a car horn
shake me awake.
A squeeze around the waist
indicates you’re still lying
beside me in bed.
I preemptively wince in pain.
Any minute now.

You pass through that door
like anyone would,
but I know what your
“See you soon,” means.

It’s open
but you don’t notice.

You land on me
everyday.

Flying through the room
like salt thrown over a shoulder.

Burrowing inside crevices of my skin.
Why are you sharpening yourself.

A butterfly lands
on shoulder granting wishes.
Wished to butter fly.

Today you were like my hair,
wild and on a mission.
Tomorrow maybe you will be like my perfume,
spritz spritz spritz.
I am envious
even when you're ashy
and whirling in your catharsis.
You're beautiful when you're mad.
At dusk you are my favorite.
You bloom into fiery tulips and burnt hibiscus.
The sun falls
and takes with it your vividness.
The moon rises
and you fade into ghosts.