I’ve gone through uncountable cups of coffee
over the past few months,
but none of them ever quite taste the same
as the first one I’ve had.
Sometimes not enough cream,
other times too much sugar;
always without you
on the other side of the table.

I leave the lights off whenever I get home now.
My eyes don’t care much for looking around these days.
My heart was never big enough to get lost in anyways.
They say we haven’t seen most of the ocean floor,
but I could tell you all about it right now.
And that’s okay.
I’m not okay,
but I’m okay.
Even the sea must let go sometimes
and trust that its tides know where
they must be.
Even the waves know it takes time
before they can be free.
I don’t need light to see that darkness
knows how to wait patiently.
And I’m not scared of the dark anymore,
since I’ve realized that it’s just a part of me.

When I was younger I always used to
see how long I could hold my breath
under water.
I never realized that I was preparing
myself for days
(for weeks)
like these when the surface is far beyond
my reach and water begins to fill my lungs.
I should have taught my bones to survive
on something other than air,
but here I am; driving with the windows down
on nights that sink below 50 degrees,
just so the wind can try and keep me company.
It does a terrible job you know.
It keeps telling me that it will be okay,
but I’m still hitting every red light.
And as I pass by arching power lines
I wonder which ones lead in your direction.
I wonder how long it would take me to get there.
I’ve been traveling around too much lately
anyways.
Nothing feels like home anymore.
I miss you.

I hate buying milk.
I always think about
where I’ll be when it reaches
its expiration date,
and how you still
won’t be there with me.

And your love,
tied like an anchor to my heart,
keeps sinking me deeper into you.

I’m sitting in the spot
where I wrote my first poem,
but all I can think about is you.
I suppose writing your first poem
and seeing your first poem
are two very different things.

I tried to drink deeply of the sky
the other day,
but lately I’ve been short of breath.
The air around me isn’t good enough.
The air between us isn’t good enough.
It’s too safe.
It isn’t pure.
It isn’t full of stars
and sunlight.
It doesn’t hold oceans
or forests
or peaking mountains.
It is air that is 2 weeks past its expiration date.
It won’t do.
I need more than the air between us,
I need the air inside your lungs.
So I will remove it with my own,
as you give me stitches made of honey
to sink into the cuts along my tongue.
I will carefully remove every last bit of it,
as it is the only thing that is keeping
me from drowning in the sea that
tosses within me.
It will keep me solid when my bones
start to evaporate.
It will fill each chamber of my heart,
pass through my lungs, and return again;
continuing to refill me.
I need more than the air between us,
I need the air inside your lungs.
No other air will do.