The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.

It’s 4:27 AM on a Thursday.
You say I have so much left to give,
even if I have no one to give it to.
I wish I had more to
[these pieces don’t fit]
even if you don’t want any of it.

It’s getting colder outside,
I just keep thinking
more about [ ]
I just keep thinking more
about you.

You were a lot of things for me,
you were an anchor in
you taught me to
but you were never mine.

There are no oceans left
in my fingertips.
Your eyes have

and that’s okay.

[nothing fits]

It’s 5:13 AM on a Thursday.
I’ve figured out how we’re different;
you’re doing okay without me.

I tried writing the other day,
but you took everything when you left.
I was never a writer anyways,
I was just in love with you.

She isn't here but I can hear her
Laughing as I tell her "you have big teefies"
Playfully she leans in and gives me a toothy kiss
I fight to not remember
Trying to hold back the memories like a broken dam
Inundated day by day
How could I ever forget
My future wife
Time is a thief
A stealer of many things
But it can never steal my love for you
Or make me forget
...Like water through a broken dam

I’ve gone through uncountable cups of coffee
over the past few months,
but none of them ever quite taste the same
as the first one I’ve had.
Sometimes not enough cream,
other times too much sugar;
always without you
on the other side of the table.

I took my time today.
I walked the way I used to walk with you,
not worrying about where the next step took me.
I missed two buses.
I got home half an hour late.
Or early.
It doesn’t matter anymore,
everything is relative.
Next week will be this week.
Yesterday is already tomorrow.
I’ve always heard that time is cruel;
too quick when you want it,
too slow when you don’t.
I’m not really sure what to think anymore,
because it’s been three months,
but I still think about you every day.

she could walk and talk and toe down the line
between thrift shop flannels and expensive black dresses
wrapped up in the layers and folds of your duvet which was so thick I sweat all night long
I woke up ti the light forcing it's way white through your plastic blinds
I woke up in my boxers and skin
next to you in your underwear and skin much preferable to mine
the recipe went my arm your body my other arm
and whether or not we did what everybody's thinking we did that night doesn't matter
nor does words we may or may not have said
but it matters that I was smiling when I woke up
to see you still there
my arm riddled with pins and needles
smiling
and the weekend before
we went to the haunted house
your hand clutching mine tightly
I wasn't scared
but I clutched at that life raft as hard as I could
as I lead you through dark tunnels and corn fields
it was good to see you
it will be better to see you again

At the desk of my childhood bedroom
the chair with no stuffing
the window open where I stole smoke breaks
the wood stained ink and graphite
a pen: black
a journal: leather bound and lined
I used to doodle in classrooms rather than take notes
and that's what these poems are
silly squiggles from a mind too preoccupied to listen
and I'd like to hold onto this habit until I'm old and grey
and I hope
that I am still not listening

The road I take to get to your house -
the long way because last time I rushed I woke up in my upside down car -
winds in tight turns
banks left sharply
only to snake back right
barely wide enough for two vehicles
up the hill and under the railroad bridge
right by that patch of grass
the precipice of a cliff
your legs hanging over the edge
me sitting Indian style a few feet back
wishing you wouldn't sit there like that
a year ago on that frigid December night
before I picked up a couple more drunken scars
"I'm cold. Come here."
and certain fall to my death or no,
I've never been good at saying no to you
so I moved closer
hearing the screams of men who lost their footing
and I let you bundle up against my gigantic hoodie
one strong gust of wind
one false move
and that would be it
but I didn't think about getting up
and that says the most