I remember, sometime
in my early twenties,
realizing that I had
never experienced
the feeling of
missing somebody.
And I think
it's because
in order to miss someone
you have to first
let them exist.

And no one did.

And I don't know how
or when
it started to happen
but slowly, unnoticeably,
faces that were
once distant and blurry
became increasingly clear
moving nearer, nearer,
until close enough to
reach out and touch.
Hear the air softly exhaled
from their lungs.
Close enough to be hurt
and to love. And now
I feel it come in waves
a dull, subtle ache in my chest
and I think
it's because
I miss the nearness of
my friends.

I made something today that made me think
of you: a flower carved into a block
of wood. I drew it out and traced it with
the faded paper that you gave to me
along with all the other things I have
from you: a flower carved into a block
of wood and bits of pretty memories
of us. My carving hands don't look at all
like yours (for mine are small and yours are gone)
but still I feel somehow they are the same.

I used to have these
terrible fits
(worse, I think, than anything)
like a little fish
violently flopping to death
in a cracked and dried up
rough riverbed
gasping in vain for one last breath.

(I was gasping, in vain, for you)

Is loving the rain
a modern thing?
An unexpected side effect of
walls and roofs and heated rooms?
Or are these mere trivialities
and water
falling from the sky
has always made the human heart
sing in deeper tones
from the gut, further down
in the dirt where the roots
drink it in, every
drop, every
note.

It's hard to explain.
The patterns in my brain
are like scratches on a CD
when all you want
is to listen to the music
but the **** thing
keeps on skipping
and repeating
certain parts
while everyone else
is dancing in their cars
and you're just trying
to drive and
breathe.