i dont want to sleep.
i want to keep chasing stardust on lips i'll never taste,
reaching for jupiter when she shines so brightly in the sky,
reminding me of all that could've been—
could still be.
never was.

god, these sleepless hours,
the way the stories chase themselves around my head,
louder than dreams too fleeting.

there's a silence here, in the night,
when everything is still.
a promise that everything could be okay.
could be.

and then the dawn puts stardust to bed,
and i'm left chasing something
i never even got a taste of.

the discovery of love comes in fits and starts,
beginning with open arms and lullabies
and the things you hope you’ll always hold trust in.

next you discover sleepovers and nights spent talking
about the things you can’t tell anyone else,
the kind of love you hope will last a lifetime.

when you’re older and you meet someone you could talk to for hours,
your first kiss beneath the orange glow of streetlamps,
you think you’ve found it again.

when someone else takes you in their arms,
and you look at the forest when you should look at the trees,
you can confidently say that this is love
until time keeps passing and your future grows nearer,
and suddenly you see someone else in it.

rings that are pre-infinite, plans that seem pre-destined,
the person whose hands you’d rest your life in.

sometimes you hit a snag, but the detour
is all a part of the journey –
familiar sights seen through fresh eyes,
a broadening of your definitions, your boundaries,
a glimpse
at the whole You.

and now there’s another question-riddled entry
under “love,”
with scribbles in the margins saying it should always feel this good.

i love myself more because you show me the parts that are loveable.
maybe that’s the way it should be.
                                                             ­   maybe
                                                        ­                      that’s the final entry.

the way i interact with people gives them bite-sized pieces –
a wince, a sigh, a rant about the last appointment.
i catch myself in surprise when i say i was at the doctor
and they ask if i’m okay, two question marks in their voice,
and i can’t help but laugh before i say yes.
i guess most people go to the doctor for physicals and check-ups,
maybe for strep throat or a sprain,
and not for half an answer,
weeks of waitlists,
waiting.
maybe they’ll even see me tired,
puffy-eyed and curled up on the couch like i came with it,
feeling like a drag when i shake my head and say i’ll stay while they go.
in little moments, if they’re looking, they’ll see me labor up the stairs,
an amused echo of ‘but you’re so young!’ flashing through my mind
as each step sends a sharp pain through my knees.
“you go first,” i insist, hanging back with a smile
before climbing in their wake.

if there’s one thing i’m good at,
it’s unrequired loved –
i even wrote a song about it when i was 13,
though it wasn’t love back then.
maybe i could place first in a talent show
if i clambered up on stage
and told them about
                                     every
                                                single
                                                            almo­st.

i'm watching from inside
a glass case,
the delicate pieces of time immemorial
arranged in displays around me,
layouts they memorize but never really notice.
when someone passes by
the pieces all quiver,
fragile ceramics in a chorus of jingles
trying to catch their attention.
but the sound becomes a part of the backdrop,
like the slightest groan of a floorboard beneath the rug
or the squeak of a cabinet door.
we rattle closer to the edge,
pressing our faces against the glass
to get a glimpse of home:
still-lifes done by a familiar hand,
worn wooden floors that don’t match the rest,
a room that hasn’t been painted in decades.
a few times each year
on special occasions
you open the cabinet door
and let us adorn the dinner table.
and then it’s back to our shelves,
watching from behind the glass,
waiting for a glimpse of home.

there ought to be more love poems
for the ones who hold their pens tighter
than they’ve ever held anybody else.

ink that spells out love stories greater
than they ever were when we lived them,
memories crafted between meetings
that made them larger than life.

there ought to be more love poems
for the ones who make playlists
that spell it all out,
titles that fit together like jigsaw puzzles,
rhythm ‘n blues and i love yous.

line after line about a beauty
too great to bear,
the one they reached for,
clutched in their hands
until it slipped and shattered
and left us with the shards.

there ought to be more love poems
for the ones with hand-written letters
in tea-stained notebooks,
fingers tipped in glitter,
and paper flowers that smell like jasmine.

there ought to be
more love poems for me.

one mistake
when you were too young
to know how to play by the rules,
when lines were blurred and
first times felt like finallys.

you had to tell him it was over
seven
separate
times,
had to endure each time
he passed too close to you at work.
until, mercifully,
you never saw him again.

two mistakes
still too young to understand right and wrong
but old enough to understand the spark
and the beat of the music.

you let him do the things
that made him keep one eye out
for anyone you knew,
because you thought you were special
until the night you realized you weren't.
all the times you left smelling like him
turned into a burning on your skin it took you years to wash away.

three mistakes
three strikes,
old enough, but not for him.
still too naive for the secret meetings that didn't feel wrong
until they did.

the first time there was lots of blood
and he wiped away your tears
while you hyperventilated on the bathroom floor.
he brought you water
and then kicked you out
and found new ways to do it all again
until you'd had enough.