54

If I should die,
And you should live—
And time should gurgle on—
And morn should beam—
And noon should burn—
As it has usual done—
If Birds should build as early
And Bees as bustling go—
One might depart at option
From enterprise below!
’Tis sweet to know that stocks will stand
When we with Daisies lie—
That Commerce will continue—
And Trades as briskly fly—
It makes the parting tranquil
And keeps the soul serene—
That gentlemen so sprightly
Conduct the pleasing scene!

I have been born in this skin,
and have loved it wholeheartedly.
I've watched it grow, and play,
nurturing it, neglecting it. I know
my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.

I know the sent of my body; every follicle
of hair which grows wild,
soft and familiar, like the forests of home.
I love the wrinkles, and dimples,
the great mass of my flesh.
My fingers play across it
as a child would trace her fingers over
the body of a lake, or the frost
on windows during a cool morning.

I speak in tongues, in dreams, and images
that no other could hope to know.
I walk my mind in summer afternoons,
and nights on a lonely beaches.

I imagine,
ugly and silly,
stupid and witty,
wonderful, fanciful,
and frightening blurrs;
and they are all beautiful,
and they are all my own.

I love myself, even when I am unfair
even when I am wrong, and selfish, and angry.
Even when I wish to rip at myself
until I’m a harmless mass
of calcium and iron.
Even when I heave under the scale of things
so much larger than this, so much darker and older
and deeper than this,
there is a voice in my heart that says:

no.

You are a daughter of dying stars

and You are stronger than the trees you love

and You are not perfect

and I love You.

and I forgive You.

my shaking knees do not smile,
the sweat on my palms do not taste sweet.

So tell me stranger,
what do you know of loving me?

the way he wears his words
must be the way he wears
his clothes, in few but many
not so much so that I still
can hear his heartbeat
pulse between the lines

This empty bed,
Only reminds me where you're not.
It reminds me where you are.
And that you're not here.

These songs remind me of us.
When we rapped them together,
Or when we danced in the parking lot,
To Jack Johnson.

This pizza reminds me of you,
Because we only eat it together.
And it makes me sick.
So I leave it be.

This game reminds me,
Of when I tried to teach you to play.
So I lay the controller down,
And turn the tv off.

Even writing this,
Reminds me of you.
But it helps get my mind off of it.
But not really.

This kitchen reminds me of you.
And when we cooked dinner.
Or when I made you pancakes,
While you were in the shower.

This shower reminds me of you.
Because I love the way your hair looks,
When you get out.
And when we cleansed each other.

This car reminds me of you.
And all of the places we've been.
Your house, mine...
The hospital...

This empty bed,
Only reminds me of where you're not.
It reminds me where you are.
And that you're not here...

So I sleep on the couch.

"She's not you," he said
as if I didn't know
as if I wasn't aware at that moment
with every fiber of my being
as I sat shotgun in his Jeep
that she was everything I wasn't

"I thought I'd be able to forget you," he said
as if I'd forgotten him
as if I didn't remember every stolen glance
every accidental brush of our flesh
every moment I thought I'd imagined

"I'm so sorry. This isn't fair," he said
as if I thought it was
and I had to remind myself to breathe, breathe
to blink my eyes clear
as I watched raindrops hit the black windshield
trickle down the glass, washing it
clean

"I will always care about you," he said
and my will was not enough
to keep my heart from splitting
along the scars and stitches of its past.

I am consumed by your presence
the tap tap of a nibbled pencil
the long legs languidly sprawled
the silent sighs and scribbled sketches

And I envy your indifference

If only I, too, could master
the art of being aloof.