This is what I remember:
the rasp of your callouses against my hips,
and the way your eyelashes would settle
like snowflakes on my cheekbones
if you brought your face close enough.
This is what I remember:
the whir of the air conditioner
struggling against the afternoon heat.
Too short shorts.
Vinyl diner seats sticking to my thighs,
pulling uncomfortably at the skin.
Blueberry cobbler and coffee left too long in the ***.
I don't know if it was me
or you
or me with you-
the way I would bruise pretty and quick
beneath your fingertips,
like a summer peach just shy of overripe.
This is what I remember:
filling myself with you and dime-book poetry,
both worn by time and the carelessness of others.
My wet hair on your pillowcase.
Your eyes.
Your eyes.
Your eyes;
irreverent and devoted.
There was religion in you-
divine words written in the spaces between your ribs.
You took whiskey like holy communion.
And me too.
Your bedroom faced the East.
Mornings were molasses and sugarcane and dragging feet.
This is what I remember:
ruined shoes and over-stretched T-shirts.  
The smell of lake water.
Mud between my toes.
Changing leaves floating down around me.
Cold doesn't come here like other places.
Snow gathers on trees and in hair and melts easy.
This is what I remember:
warming my hands in your coat pockets,
then with cups of tea-
Earl Grey brewed so strong it made my head ache.
I am more used to night terrors than I ever was to you.
This is what I remember:
feeling.
The flu in September,
then again in December.
You felt more like a fever dream than anything else-
blurry;
fantastical;
difficult to recall.
You left me sixteen voice mails;
sixteen unheard messages;
sixteen times I pressed nine to delete.
This is what I remember:
me,
stronger.

       petal by petal

feather-pendulum descends

              you fall and wither




●○
°

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
One that beat to its own rhythm,
slightly off,
tucked away in your chest
as it was.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
I remember it as you
lay asleep across me,
never slowing.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.
It burnt bright
and then quickly out;
quiet now upon the hospital bed.

You had a tiny, little heart
that let you down.

The rest of you was perfect.

It's been 5 months
Recovering from 2 years
Of gentle giggles and heart felt hugs
2 am conversations and 3 am tired kisses
5 am would bring brightening skies and quiet goodnights
You always were a night-owl

I remember running through the forest
Staring out at our special spot
Listening to the water trickle down the creek
And something about the sparks in your eyes
Really made the place disappear
Even surrounded by all this magnificent nature
I was still lost in your beauty

I remember telling you my dreams
The adventurous journey across the Milky Way
When it rained clocks and time stopped
And that really stupid one about the tricycle in the skate park
You would always listen and tell me yours
But the real dream was seeing you when I woke up

I remember many special things with you
You were my first girlfriend
My stunning homecoming date
The first person to make me cry out of happiness
You were my best friend
I will never forget that

I remember a bitter-sweet memory of us too.
The room was quiet
I only heard the scratching from your pet mice.
The street lamp crawled through the blinds
And a warm hand touched my red, flooded, cheek
And our lips met
My first kiss, Your first kiss
Complete.

It's been 5 months
Recovering from 2 years
Of gentle giggles and heart felt hugs
2 am conversations and 3 am tired kisses
5am only brings my tear filled eyes nowadays
*I've always been an insomniac

Be proud of yourself. Remember the nights you crumbled under the weight of your pain, and the mornings you fought to open your eyes, and won. Remember how you put yourself back together, brick by brick; remember the ache in your shoulders as you laid each stone. Remember that life is often the more difficult choice, and that it takes a special kind of bravery to choose it anyway

Oh no, far remote-
I am not a poet though
poetry I write
as I know
I am but a tiny bit of sand
somewhere on the poetic shore
not worthy to be noticed
to be washed away by the tide-  no more
than a fallen leaf
from the giant poetic oak
that has stood so majestically and serenely
with the loftiest and most sublime voice it spoke

Sometimes i get lost in other poet's work
That i forget where i am in the current time frame
Am i inside the poem?
I think so
Don't tell Houston, i have enough problems as it is
Let's pull out a lawn chair and watch the beauty unfold
This is the best moment never told
Until now.