falling in love with you was kind of like

putting on ice skates for the first time

even before I stepped on the ice, there was
all this tension coiling up in my stomach like a nesting cobra

there’s this momentary joy when put my foot into the rink
the unity, the coolness,
for a second I feel graceful, I feel poised
for a fleeting moment I am beautiful

I gain in confidence and I am gliding like I’ve been doing this my whole life (which I haven’t)
or at least pretending as though I know what I’m doing.

I leap in the air, like a black&white; photograph
I am suspended, a trapeze artist swinging through space
Time has stopped and there is nothing
but the beating of my heart,
and I laugh and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

but there’s always that moment
inevitable, inexorable
as gravity sends me crashing to my knees, wincing

each time, it gets a little harder to put the skates back on

and try again.

glowing waters, tranquil as though the ocean were holding its breath
and yet breathing in and out, in and out
rhythmic, an inexorable drum

an explosion of ripples as I drop the kayak in,
the disturbances swallowed by marsh grass, waving in protest
murmuring to be still, stay still.

I shift in my seat, heartbeat in my ears, loud breathing
scared of being swallowed, lost to depths where darkness clung –
yet hardly imaginable in this world of dripping sunlight.

dip the paddle in, tasting the waters
right, left, right, left
cautious, careful, clumsy at first
splashes of droplets as I pick up the pace,
salt on my tongue, tasting the burn.

the pull and tug of muscle against the world, a silent war
the ocean protesting futilely, but  
surrendering to the kayak with a creaking moan

as I shoot through the water like an arrow, splitting the curling, white-crested sea.

the wind picks at my braid and throws it to the past with a lingering sigh
my paddles cutting through that glossy mirror of cloud and sunshine
shards of brilliantly stained glass.

bottomless
means one thing, and
*******
means another.

life is not easy to describe
it's not clean-cut, simple -
kurk, lerp, vort.

It has plerbacusaling turns, and wild zarbetroken trails
misleading and confusing and grumpling things, you know.

it's more like
yarpeluztyakopordowakenadle
or something
like that.

it's the best feeling in the world, really

                  shotgun in your car, the faint smell of cigarettes and air conditioning,
  flying down this lonely highway

  sticky soda residue and empty Coke bottles in the cup holders,
                  seat reclined as far back as it can go

  the neon signs, the moon, white stripes on the road, all
                 blurring into darkness,
                            my eyes closing in the heavy air



    drive me to sleep tonight, dear
          because there's nowhere else I'd rather be

he is
not the kind of guy you would imagine growing old with,
not because he wouldn't make a good father,
quite the contrary,
but because it's hard to wrap your mind around him
not
being
young

he smiles strangely sometimes, kind of an awkward perfect U shape, but it makes me laugh and sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose
his freckles are like stars, and sometimes I wish I could trace them with a soft finger, just to see if Orion or the Little Dipper will appear in the folds of his cheeks when he laughs, or remain hidden in the creases in his eyes
and he'll say the strangest things, like he's got nothing to lose
he gets passionate about things I don't give a **** about
like calculus, permutations and ****, as if he could calculate Life

strap Life to a chair and torture out its confessions, brandishing a TI-Inspire
his eyes glow sometimes, and he doesn't believe in oxymorons or paradoxes
he counts cards at Blackjack, but he'll let me win because he knows how much of a sore loser I am, and he
gives the best hugs in the world

not because they're warm and make me feel like I'm flying
but because of how awkward and gangly his arms feel,
and how reluctant the embrace is, like he's holding something back
and its the promise and awkwardness and

realness

of the hug that
makes them so

great.

if you cannot        t  a  s  t  e        poems
or take the time to lick their wrappers


you are
     wasting
            your
                          t    i    m    e