that i've been reading your poetry
(on the new front page)
and,

I ******* love
your words; your worlds;
it's like i'm,
    there. right there,
with you.

you see, i didn't do what you do--
         write my story aloud
--when i was fifteen, or even twenty-two

just an inch off the ground
                        i confided in clouds
stayed lost (was a puff too proud)

that was then, sure, but even today
   (it's 11:11, now)
putting any of it down
committing to this word, not that
this sentiment,
      not that
this meaning
       (and not simultaneously that)
              is walking through fire

and so, for leading the way
           let me just say,
                       i love you

and please,
don't ever stop.

A glimmer in his eyes of brown,
a smile that warms my heart,
A flutter in my stomach
on the days we are apart.

A pair of wings that sprout within
each time he takes my hand,
These are things I feel
because he's the bravest in the land.

I do not need a magic mirror,
nor a crystal ball.
I KNOW that he's most handsome
and the fairest one of all.  

I remember every single bitter goodbye I've ever had to say. Left alone here in this town, though I was never forced to stay.

There are ghosts I've left behind me and there are ghosts that still remain. I can feel their haunting presence every single stupid day.

How they tear at all my motives and pull on every string. Leave me choking on my failures. The whispered voice of muted things.

Am I just some bitter tourist dragged by my wrists through private hells? Am I author and conspirator writing the stories in which I dwell?

To what extent am I  responsible for this situation that I'm in? Am I really as alone as I have always thought myself to have been?

There is little I am sure of and fewer still of which I know, but I know that I am dying and that I'm still not ready to go.

I have unfinished business. I just thought that you should know.

I find myself thinking of you
with alarming frequency. For instance,
today while folding my laundry,
I caught myself thinking of you
and wondering, as I'm apt to do,
how would you fold your laundry, or
do the dishes? Do you sing
when you’re alone?

I think of you every time
when passing the street corners
where we’ve lingered
on snowy evenings, or the park
where we played grounders
in the summer. I think of you
even in places we've never been together
and a longing rises up in me
to share them with you
one day.

Even now, I am thinking
of how I am thinking of you,
which is really the same thing
as thinking of you, is it not?

And while I'm thinking of you
I think
*wouldn't it be sweet
if you were thinking of me too?

I like it when you hold me
When I can look into your eyes
For you are beauty, a sense of familiarity, the feeling that you are all I need in my life.

You can use a heavy blindfold
Tie it to a chair
Throw it in a waiting trunk
Take it far from here

Ask it out fishing with you
Miles away from shore
Grab it when its back is turned
Toss it overboard

Hope against hope
That it'll give up the ghost
But love for loves sake
Will always make its way back home

You can climb the highest mountain
Push it off a cliff
Peer over to the bottom
Watch it as it hits

Place it in a rocket
Shoot it to the moon
While it's up in orbit
Pack your stuff and move

Though you would think by now
That by now you'd know
Love will always find a way
To make its way back home

Take it to the wild side of town
Sell it to the gypsies
Whisper underneath your breath
Hope that you don't miss me

When the weather's cooler
Take it to the fair
While in the house of mirrors
Leave its reflection there

Even when it's stranded
Left to shiver in the cold
Love in all its wonder
Will make its way back home