Typically I'm not someone to be written about
I'm not outstanding in the emotional department.

All I need
I don't need much
Is a gently warm body
And peace of mind

We need to experience more and write less.
Longing hearts lead to broken spirit,
Which ultimately means you'll never get laid.

my body belongs
in a claustrophobic space
or, back in the womb

I have a friend that says she likes poetry
she wrote some words in a notebook I gave her
words chosen more carefully than mine,
and the resonance on the page
is foreign yet refreshing, like a
pool of salt.

With her body as heavy as her mind
she stumbles to the bathroom,
but still managing
to knock over my face wash.

Ripples on dark and cold stone shores bring forward memory
Near the lake, I seek out the path to dark waters
Asleep not long ago, time has lost its tight hold
Escape is disgrace.

I get my daughter ready for bed.
I change her diaper,
Put her in a fuzzy and warm sleeper,
Brush her teeth while singing her the ABC’s.
I let her pick out her bedtime story,
Her favorite?
Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
She excitedly points out the animals’
Eyes, tail, fur, or wings.
I kiss her goodnight.
I tuck her in tight.

I try to imagine being you,
But I cannot for too long.
A mother just like me,
Living in Palestine.
Your own mother long gone,
Wearing her old house-key around your neck.
Your own child in your arms,
As you rock and rock
Such a small body that doesn’t breathe.
I try to imagine saying goodnight
For the last time.

I do not know your name,
But I do know you.
I can feel you.
Your pain. Your anguish. Your rage.
Your want to ruin the world
For letting this happen.

I too wish I could ruin the world for you.

Once upon a time, I willed myself to dream
that you'd care if I wore my heart on my sleeve. Ever since, I have.
But not for you.
I do it for me.

I know you are not in the burgundy SUV that's sat unmoving in the parking lot of my apartment building for half the year. But it feels like the only place I can go to be close to you. 

What I mean to say is, I don't know what happens when we die but in case you're still hanging around I make sure to keep the interior clean. 

And by that I mean, I know people do not remain in the material things they owned but those are the only pieces I have left of you.

And I guess this is just my way of admitting I haven't washed the shirt you were wearing before they rushed you to the hospital. It's hidden in the back of my drawer. 

This is just my way of grieving or maybe it's my way of refusing to move on…

Close to everything.
Not fixed in anything,
like a dream.