I got the cricket ticks and lip licks.
The toe taps, arms stretch, feelin' sick.

Shaking leaves from the spine, butterflies.
Figure skatin', occipital, barely making eyes.

Shortsighted. A quick flick assessment.
First contact: Human. Nervous. Got the scent.

Quick quips. Heartbeat backflips. Got a smile.
Keys out, locked in. Gonna be here a while.

Knots released, check the shoes, still tied.
Second contact: Side-eyed. Open sky wide.

Comfortable. Swappin' pictures, open air.
This here is base camp. Light the flare.

Light retreating. Sun is dipping.
Soda empty, but still sipping.

Steady handed, still footed, defiant
Listen for the cricket ticks,

silent.

I would follow you to the ends of the earth
Mostly because I have no choice

I would drape unapologetic in the dark of the dance floor as you held your first taste of testosterone

That clammy hand costume with buttons too big to blame your fumbles on anything else

I would soak your sunlight and take none for myself, growing as big, and tall, and brave as you do

Mother said milk makes for strong bones
Strong bones make for easy outlines, like, look at me
Take my picture and remember you left a mark

Joy died today.
That was the name of my grandma
- Is the name of my grandma
I'm not sure which tense to use

Her name, a homemade bread, sticks sweet to the tongue

Her personality, an open palmed hug to the child's name she cant remember anymore.

Her life, a monument to what it means to be kind and to be good

She does not own her name anymore

It has been given to the warm bread
It has been gifted to grandchildren
It has been remembered by those who remain

It has been remembered

Joy still lives, just, in other ways.

I play a game of hypotheses.
I am winning.

The star speckled ceiling asks,
"How will you know?"

I answer,
"Her grocery lists will win Pulitzers - a novel I can't help but read in one sitting."

The constellation laughs uneasily, knowing that it will move before I do.

The tree topped curtain creaks,
"What will you say?"

I answer,
"Too much, never enough, probably both - your mystery is the only one worth solving."

The canopy bristles. I do not know what to make of it.

I play a game of hypotheses.
I await the next question.

This is the way I deal with it
The venom between the lungs which sinister stirs on the shortened breath of shaky self-esteem
The poetic palpitation pleading please write your wrongs before they putrefy
This is the way I deal with it
It is when words dry up that the ink bleeds
Dance around your feelings, call it a campfire
Let others at least roast with the remnants of yours
This is the way I deal with it
For some it is to light the fire
For others, to follow the smoke

you ask me if i love you.
so i say
“i feel like i do.”
but sometimes my feelings lie to me
and i don’t want to do that to you.