It seems that we were always destined  
to be made up of stolen moments  
Distilled seconds filled with the universe.  

In a hallway  
In hands clasped under a desk
In twilight whispers over copper threads
that stitched us together
In pools of street light and darkness
flickering through the windows of a bus

If I could choose one moment
to stretch out into eternity
god, it would be us

But in truth the grains of sand
that measured our length and breadth
were scattered few and fleeting

Forever looking in others
for what we were always destined to lose

ships sailing;  
night sky navigating along  
divergent constellations  
that plotted our courses.  

meeting only where our stars crossed,  
or collided  
in sparks.  
sharing ports for a few years,  
a summer,  
a night.  
only to weigh anchor  
as the sky shifted,  
following after the next coordinate  
on our charts.  

it has been so long  
since I have seen your sails  
tilted and headstrong towards  
my waters,  
since the stars on our charts  
found an overlapping point.  
I wonder if we are still sailing  
under the same sky.  

or perhaps you are dry docked  
having forsaken the sea  
for shore,  
and left behind the lilt  
of the tides.  

whispers of you  
on the waves,  
as I hoist my sails  
once more.

there is a part of me that nobody knows  
except you  

I keep it under lock
strapped down and chained  
starved, pale and gaunt  

to quiet it  

to silence it from calling out in the still  

to **** it if I could  
and be done with it  

only for you to undo me with a whisper  
with words in a line,  
with a memory  

that throws off my desperate restraints  
lays waste to my barricades  
and breathes fire into me.  
making the chaos so full and loud  
inside me  
that it suffocates me  
and i cannot breath  
or cry out  
or find relief  
except to surrender.  

a beautiful unraveling  
of skin and bone  
that strips me down to my soul and fragments  
to give everything that I am to you.  

with a whisper you could tear me down to atoms  
you are my beautiful destruction

I still have it, the CD you made for me  
when we were young and dumb,  
and mostly honest

each song you selected  
hand written so carefully  
in fine tip marker  

I listen to the songs like each one is for me  
your words sung in someone else’s voice  
at least the parts about love  
the parts that I wish were us  

sometimes it hurts  
and sometimes it doesn’t  
and sometimes it feels like a hole in my chest  
like right now

it makes me wish I was your glory box
but instead you’re my sour times

I held myself to you,  
Desperate to fit to your curves  
And push myself into your gaps.  
I hid at your center
When you were mostly edges,  
Still filling in the spaces around you.  
All your pieces jumbled and piled together  
Waiting for you to dive into them  
And fit each fragment along your lines
Piecing together your parts.  

Each piece betraying me more.  
Calling me out as an imposter  
As I tried to hide my edges from you,  
Carve off my corners and make me round.  
Fearing as your shape emerged
You would realize I didn’t fit  
Within your borders,
Discarding me for a piece that did.  
And I i would see your puzzle  
Complete    
Without me.

I am stone  
impenetrable and rigid in my moorings  
duty bound to be -  
the foundation for feet and  
dreams that stack each brick atop me in  
false hopes that I will withstand time  

the weakness inside me mining out my ores  
each one chiseled and dug out until  
the vein is bled dry  
a cavern made by the relentless drip of everything i am not  
filing the space between my skin with nothing and  
praying that my seams will hold me together  

I am fine

I want it to stop.
not anything in particular,
as if one thing could fill me, or fix me
or glue all the cracks that are leaking me out

I want it to stop.
just everything
everything that's inside me

I feel like a void
empty and full of longing,
and a suffocating panic, knowing it will never stop
that I will never be filled and i will stay like this.
until I'm not like this.
because I am not.

so i think about being not
more than being,
and somehow that seems better
and easier, and hopeful

If only some of those comforts,
in words and arms and love,
spoken over me in memoriam
could find their way to me
while they could still find me

perhaps they wouldn't need
to be said at all