She's my water woman
Got an ocean in her eyes
And a well in her chest
She drags me down deep, all violent
I let her, for it's me who is blessed
inside of me, she cannot see my swimming heart leap
She doesn't understand
How can she when even just her hand
takes me to the safe place I crave?
An island. I’m surrounded by her.

We make love and she's a tidal wave
At night we navigate by touch
I've learned all her constellations
The stars she's made of
She's the fountain of life
Then she speaks
And I know why
Sailors were drowned
In deep blue seas
Her eyes find mine
She breathes like it's me
Who's the magic one
After, we lie warm and still
She says I'm hers
like I should have known it all along
I swallow my reply down like a pill
And she doesn't know yet,
The magic water woman,
That I had never loved before I met her
I had never loved anyone at all

sometimes i am 17, 18, 19, 20 again
begging a boy to love me back
i'm so cynical now in every moment that i happen to forget my age
21
almost 22
i don't beg anymore. i don't wait on anyone.
i love very hard and get loved hard back, it's something out of a daydream
i guess i just thought i'd never have to be 17, 18, 19, 20 again in my head
i thought maybe i wouldn't be empty or sad any night i am 21 and getting loved in return

There's a certain kind of silence here.
The profound and total only-in-the-country type of silence that city folk fear.
(The kind that my poor mother back home staves off with television and beer.)

So heavy and complete that even with your head under the sheets it's impossible to keep warm enough to ever get any decent sleep.
It's the kind of silence that pierces dreams.

The kind that a tortured mind can easily fill with demons of every type.
The kind that keeps you on edge all night with wide searching eyes and adrenaline rushes flooding in behind any foreign sound,
followed by a slow winding down of blood pressure and panic and heart beats.

The kind that when you suddenly wake up in it and glance at the alarm clock,
you hope like hell the first number isn't 3.

*

*It's moments like these that make me wish there was somebody else here with me,
if only for the reassurance that a nearby body can bring.
The sound of someone else's steady breathing.

And maybe, a naked back to trace the subtle valleys of while half-asleep,
thinking little epiphanyish-type thoughts that'll be forgotten by morning.
The kind that usually start or end with: "This is it."

Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.