do you know what

liminal
means?

liminal comes from latin
limen
meaning threshold

a place of entering or
of beginning

a fine line between the was
and will

a place of transition
waiting
unknowing

and i suppose you could say
this is liminal

this poem

this life

this concept of eternal
that we seem to attribute
to our (sadly impermanent) art

this body of mine
is so very liminal

this voice that i roll around on my tongue
is liminal

this world itself,
a blink compared to infinity
can only be said to be
a threshhold
to somewhere else

h.f.m.

there are three things you know

i.
you reach into your incorporeal chest
and cradle the bird behind your ribs.
forming a gentle cage of your hands.

you bring the red-chested red-breast to your lips
and tuck the fearful creature under your tongue.

ii.
blood-crimson feathers are spilling
from between your teeth like
cherry blossoms that carpet the corridors
of your weary mind and
scar-crossed thoughts.

iii.
your fingers are wine-dark with wanting
and an unnamed, silent thing
akin to fear tears tightening paths
through your skin,
hidden by the cold
and half-formed excuses.



the official story is that you
fell.

you didn't, not in the way they thought you meant.



you'll spit out the truth one day,
choking on summer-scented feathers
and small, pink flowers that you'll
crush between thumb and forefinger
in denial of this fear.

h.f.m.

I must begin with an apology, my friends
That I shed no tears for you when you passed
When I heard the news that you lived no more
That I did not ponder on your existence and ceasing thereof
When I continued with the ritual day to day
For this, I am truly sorry

I must continue with an apology, my friends
That I did not acknowledge the cancer in your bones
When you were still fighting, still breathing
That I put out of my mind even the thought of autocide
When your wife was left widowed, your children fatherless
For this, I am sincerely sorry

I must persist with an apology, my friends
That I did not wish to attend your funerals or memorials
When I was given an invitation and a chance
That I did not comfort the loved ones you left behind
When I dined in your homes with your memories
For this, I am truthfully sorry.

I must push on with an apology, my friends
That even now I cannot grieve for the loss of you
When I sit and write this poem with all left unsaid
That I still cannot bring myself to shed a tear, to weep
When I force myself to dwell on this tragedy
For this, I am earnestly sorry.

I must conclude with an apology, my friends
That I am still inhaling stale air, exhaling my ghost
When you have been torn from your families
That I can still ungratefully demand more than my lot
When your potential was cut down without my caring
For this, I am fervently sorry.

So, so sorry.

And yet I still do not cry.

h.f.m.

my fair infant-highness,
thine ebony skin of dusky twilight,
thy gold-flecked smoke-shrouded eyes,
bring me such joy as cannot be described

my sweet young prince,
dost thou comprehend the lengths of my care?
is thy failing health truly the last of thee i will see?
wouldst thou allow thy alluring laugh to fade as thy breath?

my serene little princeling,
what shall i do to return thee to my arms?
three days and an hour thou hast survived this cursed health,
what is even another minute that i might see thee again?

my beloved royal
the mere thought of thine own existence brings me peace
but following on its heels is the fear of thy passing
how hast thine eyes already gripped my soul so?

my tranquil blood-kin,
thou didst not cry once, not even at thy birth
thine eyes rested on mine sedately
thy smile, charmingly dimpled, was tender

light of my heart
why must my spirit cry out to thee
even as thy pulse stills
and thy tiny chest cease rising?

h.f.m

Just. Eat a bowl of cereal.
Sit on the kitchen floor carefully so the milk doesn't spill, scoop the flakes into your mouth by the streetlights filtering in through the window.

Or climb out onto the roof.
Slip out your window, hip braced on the edge, and use your arms to pull yourself up, crossing your legs on the shingles and breathing in the stardust swirling around your head.

Create a masterpiece.
Dip a brush in some paint, use your hands to shape clay, choreograph a dance, script a play, write a poem, draw a spring day.

Make a blanket fort.
Tuck the blankets over the couch, pad the floor with cushions, and flick on the TV, so you can watch cartoons while wrapped in warmth like when you were a child.

Stargaze in the backyard.
Tiptoe out the back door, quilt tugged tight around your shoulders, spread it out over the dewy grass and stretch out, facing the clouds and counting the stars.

Learn Morse Code.
-.-. --- -. ...- . .-. ... .     .-- .. - ....     -.-- --- ..- .-. ... . .-.. ..-.     .. -.     - .... .     -.. .- .-. -.- --..--     -.- . . .--. .. -. --.     -.-- --- ..- .-.     ... . -.-. .-. . - ...     -... . - .-- . . -.     -.-- --- ..-     .- -. -..     - .... .     ... .. .-.. ...- . .-.     -- --- --- -. .-.-.-

Have a shower.
Run the water hot so it'll burn when it hits your back, shed your clothes and step into the steam, breathing in the vapors and imagining that you stand in the heart of a geyser.

Go back to sleep...?
No, this elusive peace is distinctly one with the night, and it would be foolish indeed to throw away such a gift merely to function during the bland sunlight hours.

h.f.m.

Throw your gold-plaited, gold-painted
copper saints into the sea—
more salt than water, the Dead Sea.
What is it, this Dead Sea? Why,
it's that place that unfaithful lovers go
in body bags.
Full of concrete blocks, that Dead Sea.
Who am I, to talk so free? Well,
I'm dead, you see.
My bones are in a bag at the bottom,
at the bed of the Dead Sea.

h.f.m.

They douse themselves in gasoline
Light a match and watch you scream
Fatal protest of worldly injustice
Is life really all that precious?

Picket signs and flooded streets
Hide your head under the sheets
Block out the passionate shouts
No way in hell you're going out!

Hiding away from all this strife
Happiness is not worth your life
At least, that is your thought
But wait until the cruel get caught

Red-handed in word and deed
Ignoring your country's need
It is increasingly self-evident
You really need a new president

h.f.m.

the aftermath is a song
breathed through broken lips

hallelujah, hallelujah
let my lifesong sing to you...

a hoarse voice lifted
in defiance

she listens to his voice
finds humor in this resistance

she twines his hair around her finger
smiling like war

he is crumpled, broken
supported by a wall of rubble

and her arms are around him
possessive, waiting

his lungs rattle
willpower is all that sustains him

her fingers linger at the corner of his mouth
tracing the words on his lips

i want to sign your name
to the end of this day

Lord led my heart was true
let my lifesong sing to you

hallelujah, hallelujah
let my lifesong sing to you...

his voice trails off
his eyes drift closed

she lifts his frail form
victorious

the ground where he had lain
is stained crimson

her hands are dark
with his blood

his spirit, though
is finally at peace

h.f.m.

adjective

1. i never asked to be like this, consumed utterly. when i run out of ink i dip my quill in my own veins and scratch out beautiful, ethereal, unutterable words in crimson. passion and pain are interchangeable in my mind, each one bleeding into the other and through each other.

2. words forge my palace and my prison. i compose poetry and story and power, like a creature possessed. my pen flies across the page, like it has a mind of its own.

3. i run out of space on the page in front of me, filling my notebook, filling innumerable napkins at various cafés with half-formed thoughts and unintelligible scribbles. i ink 3am inspirations and epiphanies on my skin, up and down my arms, a living testament to my obsession, my mania.

4. i must move mountains and i have a teaspoon for a *****.

h.f.m.

if a wish were a hood it could keep off the rain
it could hide my face, hide my shame

if a wish were a ring it could bind my heart
it could bind my soul, a vital part

if a wish were glue it could keep me together
i could feel more grounded, or light as a feather

if a wish were more than a thought...
but no, it is all for naught

h.f.m.

i.
You thought that the kitchen lights were almost high-beams on a freeway. Colors were crisp (too crisp), vivid as if the world were a high definition television, one with everyone scurrying around on fast forward with the volume turned up, blaring louder than your ability to comprehend. Everything was too much, too fast, too loud.

Everything was, simply put, overwhelming.

ii.
There was a word for that, you thought. A word for that feeling of detached, surreal immediacy.

Dissociation? No.
Derealization? Maybe.

Whatever it was, it couldn't possibly hold this, the whole of what this was, how it felt, in this moment, in this moment, in this—

iii.
You realized you were spiraling.

You pulled out, sharply, sharp enough to cut yourself. You looked at the blood beading on your wrist like ruby spheres of light. It was beautiful, entrancing. You could watch it forever...

iv.
There is a knife in your hand.

There is always a knife in your hand, you think, even when there isn't, when your hands are empty.

It means you're always ready to hurt someone, even when you're not, when you are empty.

v.
The world is normal again, after that.
Slowed down, quieter.

vi.
Kitchen lights are just kitchen lights, after all. How could they possibly make you think of driving? Driving fast, and furiously, reaching the speed limit and still flooring the pedal, seeing how far you could go before you ran out of gas or crashed gloriously in a blaze of light and sound and sparks and sirens—

vii.
You've forgotten where you're going with this.

viii.
You've been gone a while, you think, in that state.
You're pretty sure you're back again.

Now?
You just want to sleep.

h.f.m.

happily, you decompose
releasing your woes
even as they drag away your laughter

euphorically, you dissolve
losing your resolve
to live, even as your fears leave you

elatedly, you decay
your skin turns ash-grey
and maggots dig into your flesh

passionately, you molder
your recently-cremated ashes smolder
the flame devoured you with all the ferocity of a lover

joyfully, you disintegrate
forget the cold burn of hate
and misplace the memory of love, too

blissfully, you rot
lose your affinity with thought
your mind a directionless searching

delightedly, you wither
there is no time to dither
no time, full sprint to oblivion

reverently, you splinter
welcome eternal winter
relegate warmth to your fleeing memories

earnestly, you break down
your will is to drown
all your issues are a rising sea

fervently, you fall apart
you thought you were so smart
with death comes release, no?

h.f.m.

My poems are pretty nice, I know
These premeditated thoughts I type up
To show you a sliver of me
But you haven't met me in person

On the other side of this poem
The other side of the screen
I'm just another high school student
Plodding along with the rest

I have a few people
(like, one or two)
Who I talk to occasionally
So I can call them friends

I have a loving family
There are seven of us in the house, though
So it's a bit crowded
And crowds stress me out

I'm a bit of an introvert
So even though I hate to be lonely
I don't really mind being alone
Prefer it, actually, most of the time

In person I'm small
And a bit quiet 'till you know me
Won't talk till you show interest
Then talk your ear off in excitement

I do tend to ramble
This shows in my poetry sometimes
Mostly because I don't have chance to practice
Normal conversing behavior

I talk too fast, and too much about myself
I'm a bit annoying, to be honest
And I'm pretty absent-minded
Forgetting to eat or go to bed on occasion

In person I'm sarcastic
A bit sassy too
But I'm always scared I'll hurt someone
And at the slightest confrontation I clam up

I favor silence, and solitude
As (unhealthy) coping mechanisms
Because I hate bothering people
And will withdraw if I think I'm being irritating

In person I'm shy and solitary
In person I'm too needy and excitable
In person I'm a bit naive and lonesome
In person I'd rather die than hurt anyone

So you know my poetry—
A bit sad and fierce
With a few encouraging works thrown in—
But you haven't met me in person

h.f.m.

I want to slip out of my skin
And sink into the coat of a doe
Tiptoeing past moss-trees
And through thorn-brush

I want to shed my skin
And don the scales of a serpent
Gliding through dappled-shade
And below autumnal-leaves

I want to disrobe my skin
And wrap myself in the pelt of a cat
Prowling in the half-shadows
And morning's false-dawn

I want to dissolve my skin
And absorb infinity into myself
Drifting through space-time
And and the never-never in between

h.f.m.

I'm dying, my friends,
but it's okay.
I'm only dying slowly.

I don't have a diagnosed illness, like you'd think,
unless you can count 'life,'
but I think some would call that thought 'blasphemous.'

I can feel the approach of the end,
stalking me on soft feet. A mere breath,
coaxing me towards the deepest sleep.

I've made my bed, so no worries, I'll lie in it.
I've fluffed the down pillows and starched the sheets,
I won't have to be afraid of dreams this time around.

I have a sense it won't be old age that does me in,
but I mightn't die young, either,
not that it really matters.

I'll take my time in this world,
but once the sand's at the bottom of the glass,
I won't look back.

Do I flirt with death? Oh yes.
I've brushed hands with him a few times.
I don't think he minds that much.

I'm dying, my friends, but it's okay.

I'm only dying slowly.

h.f.m.

adjective

1. we were all creatures of the sky, once. so do you remember how it feels to fly? tumbling and swooping through the air, the wind in your face and a laugh on your lips. in your arms it did not seem possible that i would fall. you saved me and i am unable to return the favor.

2. your eyes shine like merry stars and i am lost gazing into their depths. i can trace constellations across the bridge of your nose and when your mouth meets mine i suddenly feel weightless in the absence of gravity. the voices tell me i'm home.

3. the universe is an omniscient creature, and it knows your name.

h.f.m.

ambassador to the land of my soul, please let me know.
how is my fair land progressing?
this exile's heart aches for news
and longs to see those familiar fields once again.

ambassador of my spirit, oh, let me hear it!
what is happening in the country named youth?
these weary pariah's hands clasped before you
wish to tend to their old gardens once more.

ambassador of the nation of my mind, why keep me blind?
why keep your silence sternly as i weep?
every scintilla of my being screams with desire
to even set foot in my own form one last time.

ambassador, please.
this yearning tears me in two.

h.f.m.

noun

1. this end is only a new beginning, the man at the podium affirms. a better place, a new adventure, is waiting for all of us when we pass on. i care not for that, watching my family's stony faces. there is a terrible wrenching where my stomach used to be. it's name is guilt.

2. i haunt my own home for the next several days, the next several weeks, the next several months, the next several years. i watch over them, trying to pay back their kindness from a past life. there is a pull where my chest used to be. it's name is obligation.

3. a man comes to be, insubstantial. rid yourself of this burden, he says. you need not be their keeper. they have forgiven you long before your passing.

4. i am free, i am free, i am free.

h.f.m.

i.
your prose ache for company, a set of romantic ideals long bound in a strongbox labeled socially discouraged. you dont understand why they want you to treat her like some flower when she is one of those old-growth firs who has a soul older than you have ever lived and who will still be standing long after you are gone. you do not see the sense in treating her like glass when she is a steel-forged blade.

ii.
even still, you suppose you are a hopeless romantic, only you wish the roles could be reversed. you are weaker than her by far, and the both of you know it, so why must the prince save the princess from the dragon? (my thoughts are dragons, you write in black, erasable ink. dragons and fire.) you think that if you were to face down a dragon, whether or not there is a princess to save, it would swallow you whole.

iii.
flowers and chocolate and love poems are all part of the stereotypical romantic cliche, but youve never received any yourself. you wonder if you even deserve any

iv.
but listen, listen, little whiteboard poet. she may be strong and she may be sharp and she may have depths you could never hope to search, but just like you trace temporary words when no one is around, ive seen the way she looks at you when you arent paying attention. worry not, scholarly prince, your warrior princess is coming.

h.f.m.

noun

1. you think you know what i am? you know nothing.

2. 'crazy,' you mutter, strapping me in white with buckles and soothing words of false promise. 'delusional,' you whisper, bolting the door of this padded room and leaving me behind with the echoes of your footsteps. 'formidable,' you admit, in the quiet of your thoughts as tendrils of fear take root. at least you have one thing right.

3. are you listening? i am the end of all things. you cannot hope to contain me. i see all, i know all, i am all. there is nowhere i cannot escape to track you down. there is nowhere you can hide. i will find you.

4. it is written in the stars. my rise, from the ashes of this prison that smells of antiseptic and lemons and sickness. my *******, of this disintegrating world and all others. my fulfillment, of all and every purpose. you will bow. you will all bow. nothing will be as before.

5. i am everything. i am the world. i am you.

h.f.m.

noun

1. the scent of after-rain and earthy vanilla saturate the pages of the time-worn books piled around me like my very own wizard tower. multiloquent magician that i am, weaving words with merely my will and a quill, i cannot help but think that the smell itself is its own kind of strange and wonderful magic.

2. the sound of faint bass through headphones hanging from around my neck twines through the counter-melody looping in my head and is like my own background music. life is a movie-set and in every recording there is a harmonious strain picked up by the mikes with no discernible source. i am my own hero in this one.

3. the taste of mint on the tip of my tongue as i inhale the perfume of my garden reminds me of tree-shadows under noon-day sun, or creeks trickling through boulder fields. sparrows nestle on my collar bones, tickling my throat and filling my mouth with the summer-dust flavor of feathers.

4. the sight of a sweet shop or a library or a craft market or a street busker sends an effervescent thrill across my shoulders, seeing the pieces of the puzzle that makes up my art, on display for the world.

5. the feel of a pen in my hand is akin to being touched by the divine, with the power of pure creation at my fingertips. a world of my own making unrolls before me. it is an ever-evolving, stirring, dynamic creature of ink that is singing singing singing to my soul.

h.f.m.

Today the magpie cried 'salvation'
As I woke to tangled sheets
Binding bare, shaking legs.
My bed released me hesitantly,
Reluctant to entrust me to the day's devices.
Stormclouds buzz behind grey eyes
That vacantly watch steam rise in wisps
From a cup clutched in trembling hands.
Marshal the troupes,
Pen, paper, caffeine fix in hand,
An orderly retreat into the inner sanctum.
Today the magpie cried in dawn light.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.

h.f.m.

adjective

1. i wonder what you think when you look at me with those oh so perfect sweet eyes. do you think what a monster. do you think i am seeing a legend in the making.

2. we all bleed the same color when the thin armor of our skin in cut and parted. the pain is only temporary. everything is temporary. but this blood is such a vibrant red.

3. the other day you lay on the damp grass in the school field wondering aloud why the people could be so cruel, why the sky was so covered in smog, why the world was so cold, why, why, why. wouldn't we all like to know.

4. this is all we are. pathetic creatures who don't know what we have until it's gone.

5. they call me bitter. they call me cold. they call me hollow. i am merely a more honest one of them.

6. and do not forget— you are just like me. you too have no soul.

h.f.m.

"Aaron, I think I'm in love."

                                                         ­                                        "With who?"

"I saw her in the park.
Her hair, unbound.
Unbridled laughter
spilling from her lips
like a sweet cherry wine."

                                                         ­                "You haven't even spoken.
                                                         ­ How can you be in love with her?"

"You see, I'm in love with the way
she tilts her head just so in the sunlight
so a halo appears in her copper curls.
I'm in love with the way
she flashes a pearl-white smile
at even the smallest joke.
It isn't a sort of love
that compels me to be with her
you understand."

                                                   ­                                     "I'm not sure I do.
                                                             ­                                          Explain."

"It's like loving the stars
for their beauty.
You know they are there
even when you cannot see them
and they fill you with hope
even though you never
hope to touch them.
It is like that."

                                                         ­                  "I'm still not quite sure..."

"Aaron, I am in love
with her pure, unabashed
vitality.
With how she is unspeakably,
undeniably human
in everything,
despite everything.
With the fact that
she can brighten the day
of even a stranger such as I
just with her laugh."

                                                        ­                     "What are you planning
                                                        ­                        do do about this 'love'
                                                          ­                     that you claim to feel?"

"Nothing.
That is,
nothing to do with her.
Really, all I can do
is strive to emulate
the ease with which
she portrayed herself
so I can hope to bring
someone else the same joy."

                                                          ­                         "A noble aspiration."

"I'd like to think so.
I only wish she could know
that she has affected me this deeply.
I wish I knew even her name."

                                                         ­  "I'm sure that you are not the first,
                                                nor the last to feel this way towards her.
                                                            ­     Someone, even if it's not you,
                                                            ­                 will tell her eventually."

"I am sure of it.
I hope whoever it is makes her happy."

                                                        ­                                                   "Terry,
                                                         ­                                       do you think
                                                           ­                            there was a reason
                                                          ­                           you felt so strongly
                                                        ­                       about this, about her?"

"Maybe.
I was...
having a bad day.
Everything was
grey."

                                                     ­                          "And she was a spark?
                                                          ­                         She gave you hope?"

"Yes.
I suppose."

                                                      ­                           "I'm glad of her, then.
                                                           ­ Perhaps you may meet her again,
                                                          ­                                       fate willing."

"Fate willing."

h.f.m.

i.
i'm always just
a remnant
of what i used to be
hollow hands holding
grains of sand that
slither out between
these cold fingers

ii.
they say we're made up of
stardust
stars that burned bright
and burned out
'till their only
remnants were
echos of light

iii.
i've changed
and changed
and changed
many times
in the years of my life
whittled away
bit by bit
like a wood carving
'till i'm the perfected form
and the remaining
shavings on the floor

iv.
spring to summer
summer to fall
these roots turn cold
and these fruits
of my year's labor
fall to the ground
to feed the worms
and i am a brittle
stick-like thing
waiting for the sun
to dispel this dismal fog
that clouds the
remnants of this mind

v.
eternally temporary
that's how it is, is it?
i won't be here
but these atoms of mine
cosmic space-specks
will remain
i will leave behind
my legacy
if not my
memory

h.f.m.

noun

1. sharp teeth, fluttering hands, heart of a dying star— icarus himself could not imagine the heights you have climbed or your glorious, blazing fall. your bones are burning, your bones are ash, scattered across this never-place between life and death and eternal limbo.

2. you're permanently damaged, but it's fine, you're fine. you can always expect a myriad of scars to accompany the trauma. it's not like it's anything new, either. at least if you burn you might be able to take this unkind world down with you.

3. the inferno surrounding you dances with deadly beauty. and as we all know, beautiful things are lethal.

4. you understand you are a liability?

5. you don't want to go back to that dark place in your mind again. it would be better to be mere cinders.

h.f.m.

It is possible to be loved while in a thousand pieces.

Shattered glass pieced together in a mosaic
brought forth as a newer image, different from before.

You can't stand up or move away from the sink,
they rub the small of your back, bring you a glass of water.

Grey days stretched to grey nights to grey weeks,
only this faint grey light holding back the dark.

My dandelion-yellow heart, you are not so far gone
that your spectral graces remain unseen.

If you truly love a flower, you don't pluck it from the dirt
that it may wish to leave.

It is possible to be loved in a thousand pieces.

h.f.m.

noun

1. i will always be afraid.'bold, heroic, daring...' these are words to describe another. despite this, i will never shy away from myself. i may not be brave, but i am honest.

2. have you ever found a poem that touched you, brushed your very soul, and sent shivers across your skin? inexplicably, indisputably, a dust-spark alights gently in your lungs. inhale, fire. exhale, smoke.

3. flames on my tongue like a shakespearean sonnet, embers on my lips searing like birdsong. i am too terrified to speak. for you, i would.

4. i am finally doing something right.

h.f.m.

i met my lover by the old juniper tree
in the dead of night when none could see
a song in my heart and a ring in his hand
he slipped onto my finger that bright silver band

i met my lover by the old juniper tree
a week had passed by most merrily
a tear in his eye and blood on his skin
he confessed to committing a foul sin

i met my lover by the old juniper tree
he convinced me to come with him to flee
a bag in my grip and a fear in my heart
no time for goodbyes, we hastened to depart

i met my lover by the old juniper tree
i learned a desperate man was he
he had lies on his name, and that one ring
his faithlessness had tried from him to wring

i met my lover by the old juniper tree
he asked did i love him, since he loved me?
truth on my tongue and a blade in my fist
i cursed him for breaking our midnight tryst

i met my lover by the old juniper tree
he knelt at my feet to make his plea
sorrow on his lips and love in his eye
i watched my unfaithful lover die

h.f.m.

verb

1. a rapid tempo beats behind my ribs, beats inside my skull. a marching drum within my skin, setting the pace. we run, we fly, twirling and leaping in the clearing around the blaze. the stars flash between the leaves above in time with your pulse. you laugh, wild and loud and full. you are a dancing creature of the wood, and i never tire of watching you.

2. we would win no prizes with our art but our movements are synced with our breathing, and is there a better definition of grace? stumbling over each other and using each other's arms to keep upright, our laughter is a tangible thing twisting along beside us in the dark on the slick, dewy grass.

3. this moment is forever, a background soundtrack of reckless, boundless joy tinged with fire and moonlight. this is the epitome of the immortal, boundless youth.

4. this moment, this dance, this one eternal night... think of this when you think of me.

h.f.m.

It's 8pm, but why does that matter?
8pm is a world of home movies and cuddles and steaming tea,
where time is put on hold for a while, just to
give us a moment to breathe, lean in, and sigh,
"This is us, this relaxed euphoria. This is us, this retreat from the dawn and the brutal day."

It's 10pm, but what difference does that make?
10 pm is a world of computer screens and soft music and stories,
where time stretches and bends, shaping itself to
the space around you, murmuring just out of your sight,
"This is us, this peaceful calm. This is us, this rest from the dawn and the bustling day."

It's midnight, but does that mean anything, really?
Midnight is a world of shadows and streetlights and fog,
where infinity is a moment, a breath of space to
grasp with cold fingers to bring to one's mouth and whisper,
"This is us, this cool desolation. This is us, this retribution against the dawn and the burning day."

It's 2am, but what does that have to do with anything?
2am is a world of pauses and hesitations and waking dreams,
where time has a physical, transparent form to
inhabit like this liminal skin that hisses and cries and hums,
"This is us, this recurring threshold. This is us, this barrier against the dawn and the broken day."

It's 4am, but who cares?
4am is a world of laughter and grins and reckless abandon,
where we are liberated from our corporeal forms to
transcend the bonds of duty and responsibility, singing,
"This is us, this ethereal dance. This is us, this rebellion against the dawn and the belligerent day."

It's 6am, but is it?
6am is a world of last chances and final requests and goodbyes,
where the time-slipping of the night is fading to
be replaced by the inevitability of the rising sun, sighing,
"This is us, this new ending. This is us, this poem against the dawn and the bothersome day."

h.f.m.

"...Aaron?
What is it?"

                                                           ­                                             "Terry.
                                                                           I need you to pick me up.
                                                             ­                        I think I'm drunk."

"Drunk?
Where are you?"

                                                          ­                                 "I'm not sure."

"That's so helpful.
How am I supposed to find you?"

                                                          ­                                                      "I...
    ­                                                                 ­                                            ..."

"Are you...
...crying?"

                                             ­                                   "Just come find me."

"Sure.
Tell me where to look."

                                                         ­                                     "That place.
                                                         ­                            You know where."

"Oh.
Okay.
I'll be right over.
Don't throw up on me
when I get there."

                                                        ­                                                    "Heh,
      ­                                                                 ­                      I'll try not to."

"Stay on the phone.
What are you even doing
over there, after
what happened?"

                                                     ­                                    "It's all my fault,
                                                          ­                                          you know?
                                                           ­                        If it weren't for me...
                                                           ­                                                      ..."

"Don't go
silent on me, man.
And no,
it wasn't your fault.
You had nothing to do with it."

                                                           ­        "It should've been me, Terry.
                                                          ­                  It would have been me
                                                              ­             if you hadn't saved me."

"And I would do it again."

                                                        ­                  "You still get nightmares
                                                      ­                                     from that night,
                                                          ­                                        don't you?"

"..."

                                                  ­                                     "You still there?"

"I'm here.
And yes,
I do still get nightmares.
About what I would have seen
if I hadn't gotten there in time."

                                                         ­                  "You should have saved
                                                           ­                           one of the others."

"You're drunk, Aaron.
We'll talk about this
at the apartment."

                                                    ­                                "I'm serious, Terry.
                                                          ­                      It shouldn't have been
                                                            ­                                                   me
           ­                                                                 ­             that you saved."

"I'm not talking about this
with you right now.
I stand by my decision."

                                                     ­                                                "Terry..."

"No.
Shut up.
How many times
have you saved me, Aaron?
All those times I've
wandered off,
with no one who would
bother looking for me?
All those times I
woke up screaming,
who was there for me?
I don't regret my choice.
Neither should you."

                                                          ­                                             "Sorry."

"What are you
apologizing for?
I understand."

                                                   ­                                          "Thank you."

"What are friends for?"

h.f.m.

You roll the words around on your tongue.
They dance a feather-light staccato
against the back of your clenched teeth.
Motes of dust gather on your still lips.
Silence is a story you tell yourself before bed
and when you hear birdsong banishing the night.
A bonfire rages in the back of your throat.
The smoke stings your eyes.
You do not speak.
You do not cry.

h.f.m.

Hey, me, congrats! You made it to 25!
I'm glad.

Remember when you were young and full of angsty anxiety?
Yeah, great times!
I'm still living it now, though.
I'm not looking back at it, like (lucky) you.

It'll probably be funnier in retrospect,
cause right now it sure isn't.
I'm sure your chuckling to yourself,
wondering at your own dramatics.
(Had you ever been that self-centered?
Thinking what you had was really that bad?)

You may not recall,
but you used to need to write up a
mental list of why you needed to
wake up in the morning, just to
get out of bed.
And when you did get out of that bed, finally,
your limbs felt so heavy with exhaustion
that you wondered if gravity would
pull you through the earth's crust
and cradle you in its core.
You'd have been grateful for the peace.

But you've left that all behind, yeah?
You're an adult, in your prime.
You've probably got a job by now, finished university.
You might be dating, heck, even married!
Planning on having kids?

Is life running along like a well-oiled machine?
Everything going along according to plan,
tick-ticking off the boxes on your check-list.
The world's your oyster!
(Yeah, we never knew what they meant, either)

Have any advice for little ol' me,
to get through this chaotic (insignificant) mess?
Not that you'd be able to give it to me.

You're so far ahead as to almost be unattainable.
But hey, you're me, right?
If I color between the lines, on the straight and narrow, breathe,
I'll catch up to you eventually, right?

I 'm allowed to want nice things?

I can be happy?

So, Me of January 2026
25 years, eh?
Can we make it that far?

Hoping and praying,
Me of May 2018

p.s.
I'm counting on you. Meet you there.

h.f.m.

­                                        
                                                                ­                                       "Terry!"

"Whoa, Aaron.
Calm down a bit, yeah?"

                                                         ­                                   "Calm down?
                                                          ­                                           Seriously?
                                                      ­                In case you haven't noticed,
                                                        ­                    you're in a hospital bed.
                                                            ­    I think that is reason to worry."

"I'm fine."

                                                         ­                                  "No, you're not.
                                                            ­                I know why you're here.
                                                           ­                         The doctors told me
                                                                ­                       when they called."

"..."

                                                ­                          "Do you have anything to
                                                              ­                          say for yourself?"

"..."

                                              ­                                                     "Terry, you
                                                                ­                                   promised
                                                      ­              you would never do it again.
                                                          ­                     You promised, Terry.
                                                          ­                           You promised me."

"I know.
That promise
is how I got myself here.
It gave me enough will-power
to save myself."

                                                       ­                                "That wasn't what
                                                            ­             the promise was there for.
                                                            ­                            It was to stop you
                                                             ­               before this happened!"

"...
I'm sorry, Aaron."

                                                        ­                                     "Words, Terry.
                                                          ­                          They're just words."

"I'm sorry, Aaron!
I don't know what else to say!"

                                                        "Y­ou could've been dead right now!
                                         You would have been gone for good, Terry!"

"I know!"

                                                       ­                                                  "Really?
                                                        ­                                               Do you?"

"I do.
I do know.
I also know
I'll never be able to
make it up to you."

                                                          ­                                                       "..."

"..."

                                                   ­                                                              "..."

"Aaron?"

                                                ­                                                "Sorry, Terry.
                                                          ­                    I shouldn't have yelled.
                                                         ­                     I was tired, and scared.
                                                         ­               More scared than I've been
                                                            ­                    since, well, last time.
                                                           ­   More scared, if I'm being honest,
                                                         because this time was despite me.
                                                    But you're the one in the hospital bed.
                                                            ­  You're the one who almost died.
                                                           ­                                                Sorry."

"No, don't apologize.
You have every right
to yell at me.
What I did was stupid—"

                                                       ­                                   "—not stupid!"

"Let me finish!
What I did was stupid
and ill-advised.
It was a moment of weakness—
Don't interrupt!
It was a moment of weakness
and it won't happen again
if I can help it."

                                                           ­                                            "Terry—"

"No, don't talk.
I'm the one who's sorry."

                                                        ­                                                         "..."

"I'm glad you're here, Aaron."

                                                        ­      "I came as soon as I got the call."

"It was lonely 'till you got here."

                                                         ­                 "Has no one else visited?"

"No one else knows.
There is no one else."

                                                         ­                                         "Oh, Terry."

"It's okay.
I'm fine with just you.
You're the one who's kept me alive this long,
right?"

                                                  ­                                                                 "...
                                                            ­                                      I should go.
                                                             ­                     I've been here longer
                                                          ­                           than I was allowed.
                                                        ­                  The doctor will get mad."

"You'll visit again?"

                                                        ­                                            "Of course.
                                                                ­                            Every day until
                                                           ­                          you're discharged."

"Thanks, Aaron."

                                                        ­              "There's no need for thanks.
                                                         ­                 We're friends, aren't we?"

"Yes.
Yes we are."

h.f.m.

noun

1. you call me pessimist— doubter, defeatist, doomwatcher. you might as well add dangerous, defiant, disruptive to your list. you dare label me? you who believe the common people —the world— can do no wrong? you prove my point, hypocrite. am i not a person with second chances? or am i entirely deserving of your up-to-now withheld scorn, merely for the fact that i now see the truth clearly and you remain pitifully blind?

2. how can i trust when all trust, again and again, is proven unfounded? people just want something from you. they always want something. you are dangerously naive to believe otherwise.

3. do not pity me. i care not for your sympathy. i prefer your revulsion, your loathing. at least then you know like i do. you know the truth —inherently we are selfish inherently we are self-centered inherently we are self-serving inherently we only care about self self self— i only care about myself. you only care about yourself.

4. bitter, sardonic laughter follows my every word. i know the truth because if all only care or self, they can only see if they don't even care that much. i am apathy incarnate, no emotion clouds my vision. i see all, and know that honor does not exist outside fantasy and fable.

h.f.m.