I can feel you
getting close
your breath picks up
muscles tense
your face twists
your beautiful
freckled face
into pleasure
you prop yourself
up onto elbows
and explode
back down
onto crisp sheets
quivering
sweaty
at ease
I can feel you
because I know
from across this city
you’re thinking of me

it's physics, alright, this whole thing is.
my mom flicked us off the goshdarn cliff.
all we're doing is falling but get this:
our fingers gon' find something to grip
ain't gon' do much, that, we will loosen.

we be fallin' and i reckon it will hurt,
y'know, hitting the ground, so small tip.
brace yourself, prepare for the worst.
it's going to be a pretty rough trip.
we will break bones and lose our heads.

we got no clue where we'll land
but we know what we're goin' through
and if we gotta fall we gotta stand.
while we fall there ain't much to do;
just fall 'til we go where we gotta be.

and in the end, when we're healed from it,
the someone you're with don't gotta be me.

The world is something I inconsistently love yet when it's you? There's no time to stop loving you at all.

i sat with the company of an absent mind
and while my brother bent over paper,
his hands carefully making strokes with a pencil
i watched and heard my mother ask him,
"what are you writing?"
and i thought, "when will you ever ask me?"

when i was hunched over my chicken-scratch-filled
notebook, you didn't even bother looking.
when i proudly read the feelings i turned into words,
where was your question: "what are you writing?"

i think i just missed when back then she read my stories
and waved it at my father.
i think i miss the grins that came after.
i think i miss when i wrote and you'd
find my childish plot and still think it's great.

but ma, ive written 40 poems this year
and when im hunched over another
chicken-scratch-filled piece of paper,
i want to hear the question again -
"what are you writing?"