please just let me sit here in my quiet misery,
soaking the sheets with salt and dreams
(on pieces of crumpled up paper,
drawn in crayon and refined with
a high-quality ball point pen)
because I can't make my childhood
connect with who I am now
and what is happening right this instant.

I woke up this morning to the heat of your body and the pounding of the rain.

The blanket was heavy and I found that I had been rolled partially under the Christmas tree and into the piano bench. Your hair was a mess and you smelled amazing and I tucked myself into the back of your neck and listened to you breathe until I dozed off again. I kept myself from touching you more than absolutely necessary and let the blanket fall between us.

The second time I woke up, it was because you rolled over and stretched out on top of my head.

I laughed and sat halfway up and watched you for a while. This time, I noticed your always-long eyelashes and the sprinkles of freckles that had been dotted up your cheekbones and to your temples. Your were my breath of summer as the December rain came down harder and harder and I spent some time selfishly soaking in your sunlight. The moment passed as my shoulder began to ache and I manhandled you into a better position for sleeping on the floor before settling into you and reflecting the warmth back to you like the down comforter that swamped us.

The third time I woke up, it was because my cat was rattling around like a bird in a box in the window blinds.

I tried to shush her, but you were already half-awake and instead lifted the blanket and invited her under. (She’s a shy cat, you know. And really likes you. Makes me confident that even though we didn’t last, I still picked a good one.) I stopped wussing out and finally touched you without restraint. You dozed off once more and I brushed my lips against the freckles just below your temple and traced my fingers up and down your stomach and held you close to me in the early, grey, winter light.

It was the best morning I’d had in a very, very long time.

The first time you kissed me, we were laying in your bed with you above me and you had been muttering sweet nothings into my ear and against my neck for an eternity. When you made the first move, I was beyond elated. I could still feel all the spots your lips had touched and I felt important and cherished beyond measure. The summer sun spilled through the cracks in the blinds as we tried to avoid the August heat, red-hot like your new hair.

The second first time we kissed, we were sitting in my car with the seats cranked back. The November fog was so thick that I had to drive extra slow, but even then, we had time to spare before I had to drop you off at your aunt’s. The girl you liked so much was being difficult and you two weren’t talking and I honestly didn’t mean to start anything; our lips accidentally brushed while we were in close quarters and neither of us tried to stop. You were so beautiful in the dim light and I remember trying to memorize your face again to no avail. Your eyes would catch the light and I stroked your cheekbones and forehead and chin and nose because there was no way it could really be you back in my arms.

The third first time we kissed, we were blowing raspberries on each others’ skin and you went to blow one on my cheek but missed. I wasn’t sure it had actually happened, but when you ducked back in for another one, I didn’t resist. Your hair slid between my fingers like satin and the heat of your body was comforting in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible. The December chill kept sneaking under where the blanket would ride up and we would tangle ourselves up in each other after stealing said blanket for a few moments each. Your skin was soft and though you would no longer whisper sweet nothings like prayers into my own skin, I felt wanted and loved and cherished in a way reminiscent of the first time.

I’m a bit lonely.
I want to trace your hipbones and the dips in your spine
and the shape of your lips and eyes and brows
and count the flecks of amber in your irises.
I want to tangle into an awkward mess of limbs
before settling into a perfectly positioned jumble
and simply breathe and be with you as you are.
I want to knit a hand in your hair while the other thumbs your collarbone
and press my cold toes into your calves until they warm up,
while hiding under the blankets like kids in a fort.
(they always say we grow up too fast;
maybe that’s why we always long for our childhoods in the end
and cling to each other in the dark
when no one else is around to quiet
the panic that a night terror brings.)
But you’re nowhere near and I’m right here,
flying solo in a bed that’s far too big,
and I’m a bit lonely.

I wish I could mend it for you
and I wish you’d look in the mirror and see
past the tear-stained cheeks and the flushed skin,
and the neat little slices through skin on your wrists,
and the dilation of your pupils, marking you as artificially uninhibited,
and the scrapes up your arms and the bruises on your shins.

I wish you’d see the life beneath these things;
the blood being forced through arteries and veins and capillaries,
and rhythmic thumping that presses your life source
through the tunnels inside you
over and over and over,
just like the tide meeting the shore
and the day cycling into night
and the thumping of feet on a city street.

I wish you’d look and you’d love what you see
whether it’s the curve of your thighs or
the cowlick in your hair or
the way your eyes crinkle when you smile or
the freckles sprinkled across your nose or
the way your fingernails grow or
even your belly button.

I wish you’d feel like you were alive
and that whatever it was that you were going through
would eventually slip away into the history books.
This too shall pass, they say,
and they’re right.

I wish you could see that
this moment will pass
and your happiness will come
and it will flit away
and come back differently
but that’s okay.

I wish you could see that we’re in flux
(our lives are in flux
our emotions are in flux
our ideas are in flux
our inspiration is in flux
and you are alive and kicking and in flux)
and you are big and brave and better than you can imagine
and please don’t leave here
because a world without you isn’t much of a world at all
and you’re worth so much more than
the sadness and hatred and anger and frustration and anxiety
that makes the tears leak from your eyes and
disturbs the peace that you deserve so much.

i tremble before You as my knees hit the tile and my vision flickers out.
i cannot see and i cannot hear and my body is curling in on itself
and i pray that everything will be okay and that i won’t black out on this bathroom floor.
i grip the toilet seat and i am engulfed in nothingness, wrapped in black wool,
and a voice calls out from far away; i focus everything i have on hearing it.
(if you’re still able to hear, you can’t be dead yet.)
i can’t speak. but i listen to the voice and nod against the plastic and porcelain and try not to heave up stomach acid.
i cling to my consciousness and i count backwards and forwards in my head and
there You are and everything is tinted blue and i look at myself and i am pale and new
and it is the most terrifying thing i’ve ever seen.