I have a bag packed, just in case,
So I can be ready at a moment's notice to catch a bus out of here,
Headed northward on to nothing.
I'll be the only passenger, he'll be the only driver,
And it'll be a kind of solitude for us both.
Too far within the trees for loneliness
And too deep beneath the snow for societal woes.
We'll do one another the kindness of not breaking the silence;
A driver and a passenger, content in the Canadian Wild.

And now I want to throw myself down.
I want to feel the ground beneath my knees and heaven's glow upon my upturned cheeks.
I want grateful tears to swell from my closed eyes,
Because I can't contain it all; I know I'd burst in an attempt.
I want to feel every word of every lover's ode wash over me;
I want to feel you all around me,
Ceaselessly, without end.
I want to always know you're there.
Experience, not age, limits the abilities of the heart and mind,
And I believe that you and I have experience beyond our years.
We can join the ranks of the young who ask, "What do they know?"
We can turn ourselves into a couple of clichés, loving through adolescence and promising our forevers away,
And I'd be content being typical if it was for you.

And the cyclist said to the seafaring man that it was the best **** poison he had ever drank.
The seafaring man was uneasy, wishing that the cyclist would put the bottle down.
He had cautioned his friend in the past--
"Poison will **** you, you know. That's the very purpose of the stuff."
-- And the cyclist's reply had always been the same:
"Well, I've had two swigs, and it hasn't killed me yet."
Then three swigs, four, five....
"Yes," the seafaring man would press,
"But it makes you horribly sick every time. You've told me so."
The cyclist would give a peculiar look and say in a peculiar voice,
"I know what I'm getting in to. And it hasn't killed me yet."
Months later, the seafaring man left the cyclist's funeral either sad or disappointed.
He wondered if the death went down as an accident or a suicide.

Pressure isn't always harsh.
It doesn't have to be the grim and guttural.
It isn't always in regard to the coarse.
There's the soft kind, sweet.
The gentle pressure of lips against a collar bone.
Fingertips tracing freckles,
Valves working at elevated speeds.
Pressure needn't be a villain.
It can be a tender confession by means of softly spoken words.
Poignant colloquy put down with clean intentions,
The hum at night of dulcet tones into a receiver.
Mellow pressures on the heart and mind are pressures, too.
The pressure of eyes directed toward skin,
A foot on a gas pedal.
The pressure caused by closing distance.

Pressure me.

I waited so long for that kiss, for those kisses.
I'd thought it was coming so many times.
I wanted to do it myself, but I didn't--
No, it had to be him,
And it had to be right.

So with the sun sinking away
And the dirt and sweat on our bodies
And the mosquitoes quietly stealing from us,
It happened,
Once, and again, and again,
But never enough.

His fingers tracing down to the small of my back
And my arms lacing around his neck
With his back in the dirt
And my chest against his
And our words floating quietly as whispers.
It happened.

And nothing had ever been more right.

I wish that somebody around here would ask questions.
I wish someone would demand that they be heard.
They'd ask you, "What are your intentions with my daughter?
Are you making her life better, son, or worse?"

And I wish your father'd stayed around to meet you.
I wish he'd taught you how to treat a lady right.
I wish he'd shown you how to love and understand me,
And give me peace of mind so I could sleep at night.

And if you fathered my son, would you stay to meet him?
Would you teach him how to treat a lady right?
Would you show him how to love and understand her,
And give her peace of mind so she could sleep at night?

Or would he have to wonder what his father looked like,
And would he look up to his uncles for advice?
Would he feel the need to grow into a cold man,
And would he never hear your voice in all his life?

But my father is a good man, and I love him.
I hope someday you'll be a good man, too,
Because I never have loved anybody better
Or wanted anyone like I want you.

I wish your father could've been just like mine
And helped you grow instead of walking out.
I wish that he had grown up and then stayed at home with you,
And taught you more than how to leave and doubt.

I hope you've had sweet dreams the past five years;
I know I have.
I wish I looked more like you, talked more like you, was more like you.
Then I could at least feel like you were real
And luck was kinder.
It's been so long since I've known what to do, or how to.

I haven't ever written much about you,
For, or to you;
Too many words I just can't say.
I can't believe how much you haven't seen--
I've outgrown mom now.
I graduate in twenty days.

You never saw the baby born,
Or mama sick from chemo.
She's never been the same since you, and I need all your strength.
Just so you know, the whole world thinks you're a hero.
I've never seen so many people cry within a hall's length.

I wish you'd seen me sing, I wish you could be in my wedding.
A sister's such an awful thing to lose.
I always tell you so much, I just wish that you could answer.
No friend or pen can fill your shoes.

I miss our arguments and PC games and secret missions--
About the fire: I told mom.
And by the way, I've never smoked in my life, and I won't.
A promise is a promise, even if you're gone.