Sometimes,
I think my conversations with You
pick up
when I put down the pen.
Other times,
I think You only communicate
through spitballs and passed notes.
I squiggle tick boxes
on college ruled lines to check
“yes” or “no,”
but You always end up eating the answer
when the Teacher is in ear shot because
sound carries faster than my sideway glances.
You say Your notes
are too loud for me to copy off of,
but I still can’t hear Your message
when we’re playing telephone at recess.
You avoided me on
the playground in grade school,
the hallways in junior high and
the cafeteria in high school,
so You can imagine my shock
when You asked to move into a one bedroom
with me in a concrete jungle gym
several miles away after graduation.
I have a four-year lease for this new place of mine
and You used to have a tendency to not stick around
when I needed You there the most,
but here You are now,
waiting patiently on the couch
holding two cups of coffee every morning
and two cups of wine every night.
You have left me with questions
that my tuition can’t cover and
that rent can’t afford,
so please understand that when I kick You out,
it’s not because You ate my groceries
or didn’t clean the bathroom;
it’s because the mess You made
for my parents to clean up
was too big to incorporate
in the chore list I left behind
when I used to live in blanket forts.
This is all hindsight,
but my vision gets checked annually
and optometrists say I’m going to be blind by thirty
if I keep wearing my contacts
during Marco Polo.
I keep telling them it’s impossible
to match where the sound
of Your voice is coming from,
so I keep my eyes shut
and my arms stretched out wide before me
to feel for Your presence.
They say that
keeping my eyes closed for too long isn’t safe
and that I should invest in glasses,
but my insurance doesn’t cover
another lens between Us
and I can’t afford to be separated
from You any longer.
Maybe someday,
You will gargle up all those
chewed up love notes
and questions
and I’ll find them below my tax returns.
Maybe someday,
You will pay me back
with more
than just a book fine.
Maybe someday,
I won’t need your change
to feel like
I’m worth something.
But, for now, I wait patiently,
writing with a pen
that ran out of ink
since the day You gave me hope
with a hushed
*“maybe.”

she was the only thing that made sense to me on the days where i drank myself to no end
she was always so patience with her hands, ready to catch me whenever i stumbled in this drunken stupor
i know that it was hard for her to watch me **** myself with each sip i brought to my lips
yet she must know that i tried, i tried with all of my might to make everything right
so when she finally left, absolutely nothing made sense
and i cursed my empty bottles because that's all they ever became once i ****** all of the poison from them
empty, shame, left with no blame on anyone else but myself
she said i didn't try hard enough
and i broke all of the bottles as i sat within the remnants of glass
nothing
nothing
made sense

Tonight I decided that I love the way that he looks
at me.
With eyes softer than infinite rolling clouds,
they make the finite
nature of my haphazard existence feel appreciably less
confining.

You've ruined it all
Into my arms
I was holding you
Into my arms
When you told me
Into my arms
I was a mistake
Into my arms
you cried
Into my arms
You asked who played that song
Into my arms
The skies in your eyes fell
Into my arms.

~
The swelling brooks, so clear toned,
Rolling rounds over musical stones,

That unveil the rushed veins of May,
Race in wide cool stills, freshnesses,

Of the moistened soils overturning
And the chimes in the belled leaves,

Before they shout from buds keyed,
To syncopate in sun by bopping bees

Who buzz with jazzy pillowing waft,
Of daisy downs, in mid air to reeds,

Lips newly sprouted, banding green,
Groove myriad symphonies of colour

And the roots of trees tempo tapping,
Into waters plucked, earthy sounding,

All voice, with woodland birds, in joys
Do trumpet, O what new life to come.

Laying in the grass/
Subjugated to the good ol spring days/
the olfactory brings back those adolescent antics/
actually eidetic/
so much so the textile warms the thought/
unadulterated inhale chirp chirp from the north/
blades of grass
flows like waves/
As the wind blows away
wishing dandelions/
Bulbs on the trees blossom/
bees buzzing for pollen/
slumbered under oak
in a daze/
day dreaming
awoke from the haze/
To an ant hill under thy leg butterfly effect/
stood up carefully
as to not upset/
a wide open yawn
arms outstretched/
Under my breath
Saying spring days
Are the best/