i.
they say to share an umbrella is to share your heart. it's pouring outside, everyone's so busy, that the only thing thing they share right now is the sidewalk.

but, hey. this makes me want to paint what love sounds like. i want to paint the stars on your chest and the rain boots stepping in puddles on your abdomen.

i'll paint the umbrellas on your eyelids so i can treasure them as you sleep.

ii.
they say to share an umbrella is to share a moment you won't want back. it's hellish and bustling outside. no one bothers to look up and wish for the stars when they have so much to do.

but, still. this makes me remember how rich and lovely our moments were even if separated by time, but do i want them back?

i'll tape poems on the ceiling , so i never forget what it's like to feel beautiful.

iii.
they say to share an umbrella is to be suspended in time. when the red of the stoplight shines, the cars stop and the people go, go, go.

but, darling.this makes me think. if we could go back in time would you be a car or a person? would you be halting for the travelers, or moving forward leaving the cars behind?

i'll sing along to any song you want me to babe.

I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.


I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.


You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.


The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?


Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches


Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch  as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings


The world does not understand love


nor the poets that create it.