And we’re close in a way
That I couldn’t explain
With your comforting gaze
In the soft morning rain
And the water drips down
On my bare blinking lids
And you’re still there
When my eyes open again

Everyone longs for the sun
Or the sea
To be looking back at them
Through the space in between
But your darkness stares back
With a warmth deep inside
And I hope you hold true
As my fall intervenes

I’m partial to darkness
While the day still stands high
The contrast is simple
Against royal skies
With a comfort in place
And a turning of string
And you strike a sweet chord
With a soft song in mind

And the lyrics you hear
Of the sea and the sun
Don’t talk about feelings
That hit like a gun
When the starlight shines down
And you brighten to gold
You’re a bright brand new amber
And I am undone

It’s far more difficult
Than I expected it to be.
It takes a lot out of me,
It really does.
And I’m sorry it does this
To you
And to me
But mostly to you.
You deserve better than this
And I know it’s my fault.

But that’s relative

In my hopeless fantasies,
we’d run into each other
on the street somewhere
with a bar in walking distance, maybe,
but I can’t. Really, I can’t.
It’s nothing against you,
really it’s not.
I’d love to find you one day
sitting across from me
on the late train home
or inside my box of
sugar-free cereal that will
help my heart or whatever.
They say a watched *** never boils
and I’m not sure I’ve taken my eyes off you.
It’s not fair to you. Really, it’s not.
Maybe you’ll get this when we meet
in however many years
when the puddles are too small
to drown in. And maybe you
learned how to swim.
Can you teach me?
Can you tell me where you’ve been?
Who you’ve loved?
Tell me the stories you never were able to.
I’ll know them by heart, better than my own.
Tell them without a microphone.
Without an earpiece.
Without your audience listening.
An empty theater clinging to your life,
a raft they never were sent.
A new memory to crave.
A chaser to a burning shot.
The shot itself.
Are you a performer or a teacher?
Standing in front of a tuplet crowd,
the audience whispering answers to questions
that the back of the room
hasn’t even reached yet.
Those chapters were ripped from their books.

A day will come, young traveler,
When a noble king and his sickly queen
Seek your wisdom
And your guidance.
But you have none to give.

You are no hero, you are just a boy
With a satchel and a walking stick.
But you are beautiful and kind
So a hero you are dubbed
By a noble king and his sickly queen.

They dress you as a knight,
Drape their sigil on your back,
And the horse clops away.
You ride tall
Until you’re out of sight.

You are no hero, you are just a boy
With a horse and a sword.
But a crest blows behind you
So you become a hope
And the children learn your name.

How can you see what’s at your back
In the wilderness without a mirror?
Use your shield, young knight,
You’ll be stone before long
So draw your sword or face the dirt.

Your armor is much heavier than before
Or perhaps you are weaker
And your sword is aching and twitching
Against your side, writhing in its
New, painful sheen.

How can you sleep
Under the gods and the stars
When both have seen what you’ve done?
Both have heard the scream
And smelled the reek of iron on your breath.

No, you cannot face them
So you look down. You sell your horse
To a man on a farm.
You leave your armor
On the banks of a river.

For you are no hero, you are just a boy
With a satchel and a walking stick
And stains on your hands.
And the king and queen say you are lost
So they light a candle for you.

You are no hero, but you are no boy.
Your feet are weathered
And your eyes are warm with the sun.
You are not lost, young traveler,
You are exactly where you are.

There is no way
To ignore you
With your
Bounding laughter
And impossible
Nature

Constantly searching
For your absurd hair
And warm eyes
In any location
Because who wouldn’t
Want you to join them

And finally you’re here
And it feels like
I’ve won something
At a carnival
And the sugar from
A candy apple is
Still coursing through me

It is me
that is destined to
be spilled across
the muddy ground.
It can be
no one else’s pelt
that warms your foyer.

Did you hunt me yourself?
Or did you find me
as I left myself
take me in
and dub me your ****?
Tell yourself it counts,
an accidental shot.

Stretch your toes
on my back
as you sip your morning coffee.
Beat me in the garden
in the spring air.
Choke on the filth
I’ve collected.

I am a menace.
Scuttling between paper leaves
and doors. I can’t tell
which ones are unlocked.
My clattering legs will
skitter across your countertop,
and I have felt so small.
I have been out of sight
longer than I’ve been alive
and I knock your dishes
onto the under-grown floor.
The tinkling of porcelain
is my alarm clock.
I bounce off the fine china,
my arms stretched around me,
and I wonder how
you could miss all these pieces.
My hands are too small
to cause such destruction.
But my hands can reach
much further than yours.
So I slide myself between cracks.
I become a line,
another crack,
and I bring you the slivers.
Wedged between the tiles
and glittering from termite holes.
I bring you the glue
and my sickly face blushes
from embarrassment
and apologies.
I am learning what good
my hands can do
as I bandage and kiss
your poor, ****** fingertips.

There is always a moment when you pull away from a hug. That is the moment when a kiss would occur, should the situation call for it. It is the moment when only your heads and torsos have pulled away. Your feet stay in place, tucked between each other in a pattern on the ground, and your hands stay where they are, but draped loosely instead of holding on tight. For a breath of time within this moment, you are in middle school. Your date to the dance sways across from you, your hands around her waist and hers around your neck. Neither of you know enough to hold on to each other, this is just how you dance. But you know to hold on now, in this hug. In this moment. There’s nothing you want more than to hold on. To lean in and make something count just a little bit more. The hesitation lasts longer than any breath you’ve held under the surface of a chilly lake in late May. It takes more air than you could win back in a lifetime. Hesitation rules for a synchronized blink of your locked eyes before it pushes them away from each other and your hands lose the grip they finally learned, giving up on what they longed for. Maybe your cheeks are pink. Maybe they’re used to this. And maybe you’re crazy, but you didn’t think you could miss the smell of someone’s spit.

This vessel is not yours,
But the wheel will still turn
Under your hand.
She creaks at your step
As though you may break through
Her soft Swiss boards.
She is stronger than you.
And she is still yours in part.
Do not forget that this
Is the only reason you do not
Crash below her decks.
She may turn for you,
But you are not welcome
Under the floor you let rot.

Returning with
A plastic bag and
Speckled with the rain
She hears the click
Of the door behind you
And you take off your coat

The patter of her feet
And she slides down the hall
In her favorite fuzzy socks
To greet you with a warm hug
And the smell of Vicks
That will never go away

And you don’t forget
To put water in the soup
(At least this time)
And the kettle whistles
And she mimics it from
The other room

The world is warm
In front of the television
With your favorite movie
Sending changing colors
Across your faces
And her mug of lemon tea

We sunk into barrels that smelled
almost too strongly of wine
that was almost too old. The grapes
they were made of sat squished
between our toes.
We weren’t wrong anymore.
Nobody was wrong anymore
and it was being right
in the thick of it that made us so strong.
Our car used to be blue, we think.
It’s turned into a sickly orange
but at least it matches the sky.
We look for pictures in the cloudy
bumps of the metal.
There’s never anything left in the stores
except Scrub Daddy brand sponges
and glimpses of Mr. Clean’s face.
Nobody needs to bleach their bathtub anymore.
They’re all yellow. We try to guess
what kind of fruit lies beneath that
shivering hunk of mold.
I’d always wondered if something that was burnt
could burn more. “I think that
it depends on how burnt it got the first time,”
you say as you peel off the charred top layer,
“and on how you try to shake it off.”
We’re both nodding as the minnows
nip our toes, and prove to us that maybe
we aren’t the only ones with too many mouths.

The apocalypse,
I think, will smell
like peppermint
essential oils,

a lover’s
deodorant,
and organic
lemon soap.

It will smell fearful,
a bluff for
gentle, winding fingers
in a flurry of youth.

It will smell strong,
a stench that you
breathed in slowly when
your neck was buried in it.

It will smell filthy,
accompanied with the
crunch of insect shells
that sends the others running.

The apocalypse,
I think, will smell
fresh and clean and
as if it’s only yours.

What if when we grow old
we rotted the way fruit does?
What if, as we crinkle in on ourselves,
we earn soft spots
where the mold has eaten us away?
We are plucked from our trees so young,
but we are ripe for so long.

What if when we rot
someone larger and grander
who can fit us in their hand
smiles as they throw us into the woods?
We hit trees and gain triumphant cheers.
We befriend the leaves
and we rot together.

What if when we grow old
we grew new life?
What if, as we crease and hunch,
we grow down and down
until we are rooted in place?
And we can be tall again
and beautiful.

It’s a crime
to paint such flowers
with so crude a brush.
Your skills, my lord,
confound me
and I present myself
to you humbly.
Your fingers are
calloused
and jagged, their edges
can cut if you’re not careful.
You touch so soft
your skin to mine
and I sizzle in your grasp.
You are the warmest
part of me and
even you are now
embers, but it is not
my duty anymore
to stoke the ashes,
as deeply as I wish
you would burn again for me.
A flick of the eyes
and a trick of the tongue
are welcomed warmly
by my singing heart.

So how is it,
do you think,
that after time has passed,
however long that
“x”
stands for,
that we will be?
That you will be?

That I will be?

Because darling
I’m afraid of what
will change
from all of this.
From us.
From you.

From me.

Change is important
and beautiful
sometimes.
I know this.
But I am allowed
to fear the unknown
and I am more than
expected
to fear nothingness.

Are you sure?
You may want to
reconsider your
response.
I hope you used pencil,
and I am standing by
with an eraser.

Peeling silver skin
And exposing yourself
To change
In blister punch holes
Is a fight in itself

And running is easy
And hiding is comfort
And tiled voices echo
Against porcelain
And bubbles

I bought a slingshot
from a cartoon ad
at the back of my comic book.

I made a target
from a piece of wood
and it kinda looks like a person.

I collected rocks
from the school
but only the ones that are sharp.

I waited for the mail
with Mrs. Kliven next door
whose son is in the military.

I got my slingshot
from the ad in the book
and all my rocks fit in it just right.

Those words are for something else.
For someone else
Long ago.
But I suppose they work
For this
Too.

My words are for this.
For you
Right now.
But I suppose they work
For someone else
In another time.
If you want.

Because we always
Will miss each other.
Humanity.
We always just barely
Miss each other.
And that, my friend
Is okay.

Because our job
In this universe
Is to find each other
Again.
To see our faces
Smiling across
The cosmos.

And that’s when
The dazed feeling
Of ultimate joy
And relief comes in.
When we see
A dream
Come to life.

Finally.