I long to be beside you again.
You with your waist-long hair,
Black as the Arizona night sky
You slept under,
Showing me just exactly
Where the mountains mourn your people.
You taught me
How to speak to the moon
So she can hear me.
You said,
"This earth is our mother.
Let her cradle you,
Hold you close to her breast.
Love her back.
Because too many never did."

Do I love you??
Why are you asking me this??
Do I love you??
I love the things you say.
I love the things you do.
But do I love you??
Sometimes I think I do.
Sometimes I tell myself
To just accept my love for you,
To give myself permission to fall deeply in love.
To allow myself happiness for a change,
And to sink into something beautiful.
Yet other times, I find myself thinking
That perhaps I am just lonely.
Perhaps I just miss you.
Perhaps it is just nice to have someone to talk to.
Perhaps it is the fact
That every time we speak
It is three in the morning,
And deny it all you want,
But you know **** well that that makes a difference.
Perhaps I just love the nostalgia from when we were kids.
I do love it.
I love the memories.
I love those years.
I love the feelings they left behind.
But do I love you??
Do I love you??
Oh darling.
Ask me no questions,
And I tell you no lies.

What is the purpose anymore
Of writing hopeful love letters to you?
Nothing more than a box filled with papers
Set aside to never be looked at again.
No stamp will ever cling to them,
No kiss shall ever seal them.
They serve me no purpose,
They bring me no answers.
Instead I write letters to her,
Some as simple as little reminders:
That you like your eggs overcooked,
That the color orange makes you naseous.
That you only drink tea with cream,
And that the ocean makes your heartache.
To remember to wake you
With kisses upon your eyelids,
And always before the sun rises.
Still I find myself writing more than reminders.
At night, when the moon stops speaking,
And the crickets will not answer,
I write her pleads.
I set aside my pride,
And find myself begging.
I beg her to please hold you tightly when you sleep,
To please forgive your stubborn, irrational fits,
I beg her to cherish your soul more than gold,
To wipe away your tears when you think about your mother.
And at the end of every letter I write,
I bow my knees down on these pages,
And on my knees I beg her.
I beg her to please love you.
To love you the way you deserve to be loved.
To love you as much as I always have,
In the way I never could.

I'm trying to feel at home here.
Sitting in your kitchen,
Staring across at you,
Dipping my fingers
In this lavender pool
And adorning my fingertips
With candle wax hoods.
It's been three months
And I'd thought I'd be better by now.
But your lights still seem too yellow
And your milk still tastes like water.

You're busy reading the back of your new album,
And I think you've forgotten I'm here.
Your grandmother sobs
In the room next to us.
I take two deep breaths
Of the custard air in the room
Before I can quietly say,
"Um. Your grandmother is crying again."
A pause.
"She does that alot,"
You say, never once looking from your album.
"Oh."
I allow the space between us to fill again.
"W-why does she do that?"
A pin just dropped.
"She just does.
Every time she thinks of Palisades Park.
Which is often."
"Oh."

Something inside of me feels sad.
Something inside of me is angry at you
For not caring.
Why don't you go to her
And tell her it's alright?
Remind her that the mail comes again tomorrow,
And maybe she'll have something in the morning.
But no.
You don't even move.
I look down at this candle,
Cratered like the face of the moon.
I stand up and walk out.
You don't even notice.

The lamp is the life support of this room,
Barely giving light in orange tones,
Your grandmother a lump on the couch.
I stare at her from a distance,
In this room that does not feel like home either.
Slowly and nearly tip-toed, I approach the couch.
My body is shaking,
But I sit down beside her.
She does not turn, she does not stir,
But she tries to hush her sobs.

I’ve tried to feel at home here.
But no matter how many times your mother says it,
“Make yourself at home, sweetheart.”
I still feel the need to ask permission
To even turn on the TV,
And your father is still
The single most intimidating man I know.

This isn't home.
This will never be.
The itch will always stay.
Forever will I long for my staircase,
And the study,
And my home.
I try, but this is not home.
I look at your grandmother once more,
Seeing bits of her break
With each sob.
I reach out and hold her hand,
"It's alright,"
I say,
Though nothing is alright.
"It's alright,"
I say,
"It's okay."