This is not a love poem
this is an I love you do you love me like
I love you poem
do you know me like
you think you do poem
this is a would you be disappointed
if you did poem
an I have been feeling the chilling of the air
and I cant tell if it is just the fault of the season
or if you, too, are cooling
whatever heat you had for me
browning and falling and
crumbling between my fingers
like the leaves of these oak trees
in november poem
a what would I need to do to keep us warm poem
and this is also
an I may be completely mistaken poem
an it was seventy degrees today poem
this is a show me I am completely mistaken poem

I was born on the twelfth day of the year
Just in time to be the last disciple but not soon enough that you'll remember my name
I'm the third of four children
Which is to say, I'm 75% sure that I know what I'm doing
I prefer even numbers and odd people
My ideal date is public people watching
Because if two people can unwrite a strangers life story then maybe they can use that to write their own
I'm an extremely picky eater
The only green things I like are cucumbers and money
And I'm far pickier than my personality permits
I've been told I'm quiet
But I'm the kind of quiet you should be afraid of
The kind of quiet that is observant enough to unmake you
The kind of quiet that does so to himself
I've got a poker face you wouldn't believe because I don't always either
I keep my cards close to the chest, sometimes too close to read
I believe that the best people tell the worst jokes
So you'll understand when I tell you that I only wear black ankle cut socks, gray if I'm feeling frisky
My best dream is finding someone to be alone with
My worst nightmare is that I never do
I was born a dozen days into 1996
Like being the last donut in the box and make no mistake I'm a sweet treat you'll have trouble working off
I guess what I'm saying is: my name is Braden
Will you remember that?

And then autumn came
and it was her time
to shake the weight she bore
just as the trees did.

I could never tell you
exactly what's going on inside my head,
so I'll write instead.
Drown my thoughts in paper & lead.
Keep my hands alive,
and my expression dead.

The weight of almost thoughts sink my legs into the Earth

While the almost words balloon red in my cheeks and ears

Because this ****** Doo quicksand ***** at my torso but not any more than my desire to go under

I'm going to a doctor soon, or a counselor, or a friendly stranger, or whatever, and I worry about the verdict to be passed over my head

Like the pills they prescribe will meet in combat the almost thoughts that turn my brain to a battlefield that just wants to go home but already is

Like my serotonin vocal cords that softly saunter siren songs should be given a megaphone to tell all the almost words that their echo chambers just got nuked from orbit

The fingers that send daily update texts are the same ones that want to let go of the steering wheel, not because I want to die, but because I don't want to be the one responsible for hurting you

So I'll bludgeon the sand with my two left feet until I turn it into enough glass to build a shade-stained stairwell back into my regularly scheduled programming

"I'm not there yet", I say
"Ah, but almost", I think

lying awake
and looking for all of the answers
in my ceiling.

asking why
it has to be me who feels this way
               (feeling completely lifeless, and absolutely hopeless)

asking You
               “haven’t you taken enough from me?”
               “why must you haunt my dreams?”

and the only bit of light i have
comes from the streetlight by my window,
it shines on You.

and from the corner i hear You,
with a vacant and harrowing tone.
and the detached vowels and consonants
echo throughout the hallways.
they hang themselves on the wall
as a reminder.

               “they say nothing kills a man faster than his own head”.

Do I choose my dream
or does it choose me?
am I the water or the stream?
which of us dwells in fantasy?

Am I the stem
or the flower?
the clock's seconds--hand
or the beat of the hour?