I.
My mother keeps my letters to Santa
in a drawer by her bed,
and my father keeps my baby teeth
like a handful of tiny ghost  
of the innocence that has been lost.  

II.
I used to be 6 once,
I WAS MAGNIFICENT.
With arms outstretched
I could fly if I willed it;
now I barely move
without trembling.

III.
I smoked my first cigarette
when when I was 12,
and  it wasn't until I was 16
that a boy named Frank told me
I had to inhale.
I blame him for my addiction.

IV.
When I was 18
someone took something from me
that I could never get back.
I hope they keep it safe,
and sharp in their memory
so they do not forget
the tone of my voice when
I let go of my Gods
and said,
"yes."

V.
This week  someone hurt me
and I took it as punishment
for the time I cheated on my boyfriend
when I was 21;
like any former catholic,
I always have to remind myself
that I don't believe in God.

VI.
Last night I went to a party,
and a man told me
I was pretty,
I believed it for the first time in a long time.
I laid my head on his shoulder
and told him I was tired.

We had spent two days in bed,
   talking,
             laughing,
                          touching.
You said something along the lines of,
"I wonder if we're even still alive?"

When we finally left your room
the sun came pouring in
through your kitchen window;
It drenched our skin
forming silhouettes on the flat surfaces.  

Our shadows stood side by side,
I smiled and said,
"you are only as real as I am, my dear."

I guess that nothing else really does matters.

Do you remember when we
danced beneath street lights
that bowed
in the presence
of our youth,
to that hum
from power lines
that can only be heard
early in the morning
or late at night?

Lately,
much like the power lines,
I hum
but only
when no one
is listening.

I keep these feelings
like water in cupped hands;
desperate to convey them
but they slip,
drop by drop,
through my fingers
and never completely
make it to you.

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love—put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Today, I made my way through the hallway,
taking the frames down,
wrapping them in old newspaper,
filling the holes they left with putty;
leaving the walls, white and bare.
Once again, erasing every trace of myself.

I walked from room to room, slowly and quietly
like a ghost without matter
trying to cling to things it can not hold.
I took breaks often, sat on the couch,
watched the grass sway through my living room window,
and wrote three awful poems.

I looked around at all my furniture,
realized how most was scratched and damaged
from being forced through so many doors…
I’m sure there’s a metaphor there,
but I’m not going to bother.

Your heart,
it is light and pure and honest...
and mine,
mine is heavy
but unknowingly and oh so sweetly
you help carry the weight

And on Sunday mornings
when you awake in my bed and you smile, yawn, blink,
stretch or even just breath,
I think,

NO, wait,

I know,
I was born just to see the green of your eyes.

Your tiny hands are a compass
not because they point
or because they fit perfectly in mine
but because I will always follow them.

Let me please always be a warm bed,
a piece of peace,
a comfort.
Soft, safe and quiet and still.
Soft like my mother was;
with her hands caressing my skin
she could heal any and all wounds.

In whispers let me sing,
"I want to tell you how much I love you,"
as your lids slowly and softly cover your eyes

We are sitting on the shallow side of an empty pool,
avoiding the remnants of algae water settled in small ponds.
I am wearing a burgundy, baby doll dress, the one I used to wear I was 8.
I say something in slow motion, you laugh like a child;
I forgot how the lines gather softly, around the corners of your eyes
as if you were squinting at the sun.

Wipe the crumbs from kitchen counter,
sweep the dust from the wooden floors.
do not mourn puddles
of spilled milk.

Look in the mirror, recognize
that there is light, and there is clarity.
See the small child still inside;
You have both loved the same people,
you have both longed for the same home,
how could you deny her?

Butter toast, flip the egg on the stove.
Thank yourself for not yet giving up
despite the hard days.

Every single time I think of you
it is never directly of you.

It always is the red potatoes
sprinkled with rosemary.

It is lit cigarettes on fire escapes.

it is record players,
and scrabble matches.

It is the look on the cab driver's face
as I forced you in his cab
when you got too drunk
on the fourth of july.

It is the ride back home,
over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is Fireworks exploding
into chandeliers of light,
in the distance,
as you're passed out,
and I'm crying
because I miss my mother.

In hindsight, this too
was beautiful.

It was late November in Los Angeles,
back when it still used to rain.
In that old apartment in which everything felt
filtered yellow, like coffee stained teeth.
The walls, like you, were too thin;
at times I could hear your neighbor crying.

We used to drink, and head up to the rooftop,
where we would smoke too many cigarettes
and loudly declare our love.
Our aesthetic was broke and romantic.
Drunkenly admiring one another like
we admired the city
by romanticizing it's flawed demeanor.

"...don't you remember me babe,
I remember you quite well..."
I sang to you while I ran my cold fingers
through your soft waves.
You hated Dylan but joked
that I nailed it, and
began warm my hands with your breath.