I like it when you say "her"
because for some unbearable reason, it makes me all jumpy inside
because it's possible that someday you'll mean me.

I don’t know how to write about missing you.

Rain falls from the mists of heaven, slinking through the air, refusing to gaze upon the ground
       Though it remains its destination
All the while the earth rises towards the mist without hope of reaching the rays shining upon it.

We live in-between these places of ground and air.
Hoping to touch the rays and the earth at the same time.

They say some people wear their hearts on their sleeves,
But I try to keep mine stuffed away in the back of a sock drawer
      Where no one will ever find it.

I want to tell you about the sun
     As blind as it is blinding
Or that smiling is easier when you’re in the room
Or that sometimes I dream
Of allowing forbidden words to pass through my lips.

Because I found something new in you. Terrifyingly close to the kind of love that breaks hearts.

Gripping my soul in your clutches.
     You had me
     You have me
I always thought this kind of thing was fiction
And I will probably never tell you that I wrote this poem
But I miss you

I got tired

Of proving that my dreams are valid,
That the diameter of the me that you see in no way predicts what exists inside

I got tired

Of whispering my words so that those around me could feel tall
Taking up space was a sin and

I got tired

Of hearing my sins repeated back to me

I got tired

Of the burning in my heart as it became ash
Because they like their barbecues

I got tired

Of distracting myself from what I hated most
Because I was scared they might be right

I am tired

Of holding on
Because I forget how to let go

I spent the majority of yesterday sitting on trains, looking at people's hands. Never, had the golden bands, slipped around fleshy fingers, stood out to to me the way they did that day. It was like I had found Wally and my eyes couldn't look away. Never, had I noticed the way human hands react to sound, speaking their own language, ignored because no one understands or cares. I only just noticed my own pair. They had always been there, my hands, under-appreciated. I don't have to look at them to be sure they're attached, but I check anyway.

HAVE you ever been so tired you start believing you are the universe? And it all makes sense. Like that one time you were mowing the lawn without sunglasses in the thick of summer and the glare of sunlight stings your unprotected eyes. All that's needed to cure your festering mind is a slight droop, lashes finding their nests, and the song stops. Sometimes, I test my lashes but whether they rest or not, I still see the universe in you.

SOUGHT out and with more than a few doubts. Half that and what do you have? Well, partly you but also partly me. It's a strange feeling knowing something you thought you had under control just a few days ago has spiraled into something unrecognizable. There's still something there... I think.

YOU get so caught up that you forget your body exists in space and time and you lose any awareness or feeling and when you finally return to yourself you notice the aches of where you forgot.

AND admit it, the worst is yet to come and even when it does come what guarantees your safety then? "Oh no, not me! I've been through hell already."

YOU are what you eat. Lying doesn't do any good, as transparent as you are. Laughter is equally as useless. Forget about puzzles, pine trees, or power outages, they're just distractions until the inevitable something comes and smacks you upside the head. Are you used to me speaking gibberish? Tactical evasion is almost a superpower by now.

HAVE we spoken lately? You and me? I thought I saw you sitting across from me the other day. You weren't paying attention, of course, you never do. Which was great for me, it is rare that one finds the chance to see you in your uninhibited state. 60 seconds and ****, I lose you, like magic, my observation told me that's who you are.

TAUGHT but never educated in the ways of cartography, I have a hard time finding you. You aren't helping any, declaring hide-and-seek is your forte and I tend to give up in hopes you'll pop out from behind the coat rack and claim your title. Number one in all things, except understatements.

ME and not you but, someone else, because it's chilly outside and I needed an endlessly flowing supply of words. Theirs is a story of worth but I will not be paying attention because I am looking for you. Every night the moon reads me stories even though I beg for music. When day comes the sun tells me to run because concepts like love, fall in front of your gravity.

WHO believes them? It isn't cute. It isn't funny. Carry me home after it is all over and you will still find, within the sodden depths of solitude, nothing. It's wet socks, long fingernails, and notebook paper without a perforated edge. No time for a quick reading of the palm, fortune is just a made-up word sometimes substituted for hope.

I want to go somewhere with you, but we have to go slow, like a turtle with a purpose, and when we arrive we won't be able to tell the difference between outside and that other thing.

AM I justified in hating injustice? All I ask is that you tidy up and if I must, I choose the Dirt Devil. Vacuuming is my favorite kind of cleaning because it *****. Am I insane because I find comfort in the fact that, while I can't find you, I know you?

A dog awoke in its own bed and padded into the kitchen. The dog sat on its haunches and waited expectantly. Its dark eyes fixed on the cabinet, tongue lolling over its back molars. In its waiting it does not contemplate the mysteries of the cabinet or the futility of each day. There are no false pretenses and if there were the dog would not know or care.

It simply waits.

And in its waiting it finds what most of us spend our entire existence searching for.