A novel is writ
from the brush of a knee.
Stranger in the window seat.
What's wrong with me?

I remember when I was younger
Like you.
I didn't know what I wanted until
I got it.
Didn't know
What I didn't want
Until
The heavy breathing
And friction of bodies
Eventually
Rubbed a hole in my
Heart.

I left dozens in my wake,
But how was I to know it?
"A one night mistake,
Whatever."
Another person ghosted.

Now I'm in your wake,
Upset I didn't see
That I'm a casualty of exploration:
You didn't really care for me.

How is it, that again,
A mug of earthenware,
Spun with love hand,
Breaks in the sink,
And I glue it back together,
Where the pieces shattered.

You think I'd learn,
To be more careful,
More deliberate when I stacked the dishes,
But I've done this twice now.

I only have so many mugs to break,
Yet it seems a fact of life,
That accidents happen,
But should both these truths collide so many times again and again and again,

Then,
I will have no more mugs for my coffee.

The grass on my palm is pining.
The dogwood blossoms fear no risk.
We are blackberry winter in waiting.

But the walnut rests,
until the final frost has passed.
I'll wait as long, or longer, for a kiss.

We have felt the gentle pressing of time
Its palms on our chests.
Together hand in hand we breathed in sync
Against the weight,
Plotting our escape,
Breaking the molds man made for us,
And carving out a new caverns in the clay
Flooding them with joy,
Recasting our forms, in stranger poses.

One day we will be too weak
to carve,
We will step back to admire
our work:
Our caverns,
Carved
Over years
So deep.
Sweeping sculptures
left behind.
The pressure of the earth above,
pressing down
again.
And the press won't feel
as gentle.
We will
be tired,
too weak
to breath
against it.

It's ok.

Holding
Hands
We will
Sink
Into
The
Earth.

What do I do with this longing?
no bags can carry it.
I grab at the mist
it floats around my head,
clouding my vision.
Outstretched hand returns with nothing.
An inkling of wetness, or something.

Waiting for the vibration in my pocket
a sensation
as close to aviation
as I can find.
To a dragonfly's wings.

You were a pile of bones.
I loved you before I met you,
blindly as one should, staring at your photo through a phone.

I didn't know, but my heart knew, as I sat nervously in the car.
Scenarios of sickness,
unfolding in my brain,
spilling out like oil.
I tried to clean up, but everything was already greasy and black--
primed for you to leave me,
before you even laid down on my lap.

Then I held you.
You felt so soft,
and gentle.
But, instead of joy,
I felt dread.
You were too calm.
You didn't wiggle, or whine.
I said "It's probably fine,"
but your body was ticking like a bomb.

I feel foolish, dear pup,
ashamed of my dreams on the way home,
of you running, and playing, and growing up.

But you did not play,
and you did not eat.
You were so tired, and woeful, and weak.
I knew when I heard
your little heartbeat,
and your raspy breath,
right next to my ear as I slept.

And the next day,
on a cold metal table,
you slipped away quietly.
I hope that you know I loved you entirely.

Aside from crying,
all I can manage to do now, is to laugh.
Because, while grasping at straws I had thought
"You can't spell Olive without the word 'live.' "
What a cruel cosmic gaffe.