During the night
my hands start their
journey creeping across my
bed looking for you
reaching out into the void
hoping to God that you were there
They are searching
for your warmth
and those familiar curves
of your silhouette
They've been aching
and longing for
you
for a lifetime
but all they find
is that vast empty space
of darkness
where I last
misplaced my heart


very far away.

Poetry has no
****** preference.
It will love you like a woman,
and take you like a man...
it will milk you dry,
make you cry, sigh, laugh and scream.
When its done,
you will never be the same...
more open, more alive
more fully human,
accepting your ravishing
by words.

I.
These stars, this twilight palaver, out by what used to be a Wal-Mart;
   walking down streets in a fairytale, apart from you,
   putting on a good show, when all I wanted was to hold your hand.

My memories don't progress like pages, but ebb and flow,
  the way the river does, as it winds its way to the delta,
  with rapids around every other bend.

What is and what was and what should have been are written in your eyes,
  grey eyes, eyes that pierce me like lances when I gaze too long;
   my self then, afraid of being naked.

I clothed myself in words, and folly; raised myself up as intelligentsia,
   as protection, which you saw through so easily.
   What it was I wanted protection from, God only knows.

I bend my thoughts to you, my heart and hopes searching for some message,
   some sign, some carrier pigeon from the Hague,
   sent to change everything in one stroke.

II.
Walking in green fields once,
somewhere in high summer
full of the growing things
we turned
and were
here.

Here?
Yes.
Now?
I want to, please, yes.

The grass was so soft, the sun an everlasting lamp,
the world so clear I could almost see through it.

How can I?
Easily.

III.
Needles, so many needles.
I should have been there
Would have been there

But I made my choices
As you did yours
And who I was then
Was not who you needed

They told me you had a death drive
Who they were to fling Jung around like that
In passing remark about you
I will never know

Here let me.
No.
Please.

I wept for you
I still weep for you inside
This burning you have given me
Imagining as it should have been

IV.
I found you on the floor in your kitchen
Alone
Cold
Barely even a ghost

I gathered you in my arms
And put you in the car
And drove

We drove out past the city lights
On into the dying West
Your feet on the dash
And your heart in my hands

you are not very fond
of my numerous speeches
about how I wake up
and gaze at you in your sleep
about me pouring my
whole being to you
while you fiddled with my hair
how you listened
how you stared
but I will let you know
that I am in love with
the rare times
you truly speak to me
on a monday dawn
when your words
are as timed
as the beating
in my chest.
                          *p.t.

i had this strange notion that new clothes would make people want me.
like a tripping over a new stereotype and taking it home to dry
would make people notice me
like my pictures on instagram
now that i can hashtag "gamergirl"
"nerdgirl"
"glasses"
"geek".

like somehow big bows and tight jeans
loose sneakers and earcuffs
and fake glasses
would finally sort me into the right file
with all the other people
like me (?)

like me.
are you like me
as in the clothes i'm wearing
the movies i'm watching
the games i'm playing
are you like me like the words i use
like the smiles i smile
like the imitation kim kardashian perfume that i buy (?)

i had the feeling that people would notice me
that hipster boys in starbucks would take a sideglance, then go for another peek
that boys from ivy-league schools
would ask for my number
that gamestop employees would stand too close to me...
and i was right.

but being right doesn't always mean you're happy
and though i am somehow now interesting
and attractive
and easy to sort into small plastic boxes
i feel
empty
poor
cold
materialistic

basically, i feel like every girl i have ever envied.
i don't know why i envied them.

they are not like me.