the things i don't understand yet about life
and what it is that makes us move
and makes us meet
and why it is that we love
and also why we fall apart...

these are the sweetest uncertainties
--to never truly know what will become of us
is magic.

it is what makes us come alive
day after day
when the rest of life's familiarities
prefer us dead.

i am filled to the brim with life.
forgive me if your shaking makes me spill.

i poured your pretty lies
like purple skies
into the sinking sun.

the ugly that you told me
sounds of beauty surely
to someone.

even after the harshest, coldest winters,
the spring still finds the strength
to revive all of the flowers of the earth.
the planet spins around again.

and that's the way that i intend to love--
with the resilient yet forgiving force of nature.
because it is the universal purpose.
because the movement of our lives simply depends on it.

i stopped writing about love and all the people
that begged for rations of my lips and eyes
i've left the pages white and neat and empty
i've kept the plastic wrap around my mind.

i stopped trying to feel something worth describing
with rhythm and with simile and rhyme.
i am collected in this box of bones and sutures
i am impossible to love past dinner time.

i stopped shaking from my heavy, dreamless sleeping,
the timing belt to which my feet are strapped.
i am locked into a ground that can't broken,
guarding mines of love like gold that can't be tapped.

i stopped writing about depth and loss and body
i packed and froze my stock of butterflies
i've kept in cages all the wild phrases
that once wandered like balloons into the skies.

i stopped turning all the pages of the scripture
i pray only after two glasses of wine
i dug until i found the clay of chaos
then stabbed my shovel dully in its spine.

i stopped writing about love and all it's meanings
i am suspended on a rope above my heart
cracking slowly under weight of empty spaces
why fall in love when you can fall apart?

convinced that i am wise, i wire
and rewire
and revise and revise
and just leave it
blank.
a blank is nice & empty.

and empty
is what i now disguise as comfort.
the more silence that i settle in,
the more places there are for us to hide.

convinced that i am sane, i train
and retrain
and retain and re-tame
my mind to ask for every thought served on ice,
because frozen is comfort, too.

it is solid
and it can be held and drawn,
and re-drawn
it can be sharp
and be the means by which i sever
any speech i string together.

because for now just words will do,
any words you like untrue,
will fit into this empty,
i’ve stretched to welcome you.

i love you the same way honey drips
oh so slowly
But sweetly
and deliberately
from the buzzing hive