It is the season of
wiggly toes in wool socks,
witty novels and obscure films,
raindrops,
silver against the night sky,
And despite the crisp air,
an overwhelming feeling
of warmth.
It is the season of
warm feelings
that have no objective,
but only,
to feel warm
when my toes
meet yours
in a lucky accident.
Small secret moments,
no more real
than in my heart
and in my head.

Lost in space,
among the stars and planets,
constantly aware
of the intense black sky,
all-encompassing,
and forever,
but not forever,
not really.
More of a forever
than any "forever"
to leave the lips of
a love sick boy or girl,
confessing their undying love,
or a mother or father,
with broken promises
of unconditional love,
or a friend,
a very good friend,
who can never live up to
a forever friendship.
More of a forever
than any fathomable forever,
but not forever,
not really.

The sweet sound of innocence
from rampant fits of laughter,
Lemon bars embellished
with a coat of sugar,
Cartwheels in
the freshly mown grass,
the taste, the smell
forever engrained in my mind,
The sweet, syrupy
cherry lollipop,
tinging my tongue,
ever-so-slightly reminding me,
nagging me to feel
this nostalgic desperation,
for a time and place
that no longer exists.

The holidays masquerade as
simple and sweet,
the affectionate smell
of freshly baked cookies,
melted chocolate and
a minty breeze,
The fantasy of something white,
and lights, lights
so many lights.

But up close it's
nothing more than
tension, poorly masked
by contrived small talk.
No politics.
No religion.
And don't talk about anything
that matters.
Guilt at the pit of my stomach,
in a small room
with too many people,
too many inauthentically polite people.
And a clock,
A clock that won't stop ticking
for just a moment,
to let me breathe.

She throws her "I love you's"
out in the world like
it's a simple hello.
Often and careless like
gum on the sidewalk.
She mutters them
with every goodbye
as I shuffle in my seat.
"I.." "you too."
I keep my "I love you's"
hidden in my jacket pocket,
even when I mean it
and she doesn't.
They're locked behind stammers
and stutters,
and strange insecurities.
I keep my "I love you's,"
So few.

They tell me to write about love,
but I'm not sure I know
what that is.

Is it the warm feeling,
the soft sigh listening to
the smooth sounds of Sinatra,
or is it the insane laughter,
the inability to wipe the smile
from my face,
when I'm with you.
Is it the in between moments,
just noticing,
noticing the quiet, lovely things,
the silence that isn't
all that silent

Maybe, but

It surely isn't the
feeling of home or
the prayers to God,
or the shouts of rage,
the obligations,
or the "have-to's"

If its love because
it's supposed to be,
because you should,
then I don't want it.
I don't want that "love"

It was a question;
a simple inquiry
that I had been running from,
catching me off guard,
trapping me in this feeling,
that I had been found out,
before I had found myself.

I remember taking offense,
as if it were an accusation,
rather than a question.
Out of breath,
and suspiciously defensive,
I was frightened out of my mind.
But it had been asked with such disdain,
such disgust and disapproval,
so I kept running.

These days
are lying in bed
until the feeling passes,
walking with you,
half listening,
constantly searching
for a moment
I can ******,
for a chance to
tell you,
to try to tell you.

These days
are using
earbuds and novels
like an invisibility cloak,
or rather an attempt
to drown it all out.

These days
I'd rather be
alone in a group.

These days
I cling to your
every word
and I apologize
for all of mine.

These days
I don't know
what I want
or who I am
but I'm sorry.

Each day so drastic,
One marked by
sweet, soothing hot cocoa
dripping with white foam
and twists and turns
of enthusiasm rooted
in my stomach

The other,
preyed on by
the overbearing abyss
of poisonous thoughts
dressed in satin and lace

And now the start of a new day,
the sun still tucked away
for hours to come,
perhaps hiding from
the vile thoughts
of the dark sky

It's everything,
but it's nothing.
I'm nothing,
I'm nothing.

Empty.
Nothing,
less than nothing.
But only
a faint cowardice,
the inescapable fear
that glues me to the sheets
that will not be
stained red, today.