You make me think of mornings and you remind me of things that I'd lost, without it hurting.*

(A)

She
We sit at coffee tables and look at each other. My gaze on yours is heavy. You never seem as troubled as I feel. If the world were a river, and we stood in the middle, you were the one who went with the flow, and you changed it, to move wherever you wanted to go, knowing all along that you could. I turn my back on the current, weak and shuddering as it rushes towards me, past me. I like the smile on your face, the fact that you want to be my boat.


(B)

He
We sit in the kitchen; it's bathed in the morning glow. Your eyes are gently closed, palms cupping a coffee mug, held to your lips. We are kept warm this moment in time, while the curtain gently flutters in the morning breeze. I don't know what to make of you. The way you always seem suffused with light. You bring me my day and my night; and the brightest I have ever seen the moon is in your eyes.


(C)

She
You're like evening gowns and the words 'nothing to worry about'. Tears of joy when all your life you have been taught to pray, but never with the certainty that your prayers would be granted; tears of joy when after all these years you got what you were looking for anyway. I still kneel at the foot of the bed we joyfully tumble into each night. My lips, so used to smiling, since you came, repeat 'thanks,' softly, certainly.

(D)

He
I think you are the chance I was given to do everything over again. You found me in troubled spirits and I love you in good cheer. We started with nothing, a thousand miles apart, and then I found you (and the other way around) and together we found: this round table made of wood, these throw pillows, a sofa. Our friends say it's a start, but you tuck your head against my chest, with a knowing smile, and whisper: *"It's every happy ending I could have ever imagined."

and maybe this is the way
i’ll learn to love again
through fogged-up glasses,
the secrets the wind tell.

when it’s raining outside
(this month, it has been)
when i’m camped out
on my bedroom floor,
i want to be found, but not now.

not by you.
not when i don’t know what i want to do,
yet.

the secrets the wind carries away.
the lifting of the
weight.

listening to mr brightside feeling really tired
what can i do when we’re falling apart at the seams
again? with loud sighs, collapsing into beds. rag dolls
dancing, in fading yellow light. lying in the dark,
staring at our reflections
in black windows, what are we
coming to. it’ll be okay as long as—in your eyes: me,
in my hands: you. are we just pretending we don’t feel lonely?
i;m scared. you took your needle and your thread and you put it through
my little finger, ‘pinkie promise’ you whispered
ghost from a future nightmare, i’m faithful to you.

softly beating
a soul that refuses to fold
smiles that crumple, smiles
that are too bold

a weak pass, an afternoon
nap, a series of near-collapses

translucent pink curtains

eyelids that don't keep out the light;
eyelids that don't keep in the
dark
night

i practice pulling my bones, at the joints,
little bones out of bigger bones
i practice breaking my knuckles
pulling muscles
pitching forward onto dead earth.

i practice getting myself out of scrapes
even if it leaves me a little less whole
as a person. a ****** laughing mess.
i practice hurtling towards the sun,

i throw myself at you. quickly,
you recoil. you sputter. you spit.
we are flames,
burning out.
we are flames.

the sky is a warm blanket, yet we
are inconsolable. wrapped and untouchable,
cloaked in isolation
desolation; this is not about crying anymore.
this is not about blood.
this is about ragged breaths, open pores,
mudstains. muddied legs wrapped up in pink
and white and flowered sheets. this is
about needing more. this is about
the hopelessness of the
search, despite and because of
the ceaselessness of the fight.

We will not be falling down anymore,
though our limbs turn jelly: this is about iron
spines. This isn't about eyes. This isn't about
weakness. This is about outshining the sun,
about the unflinching--
not wincing in the face of the truth.
This is not about invincibility:
this is
about

invulnerability.