Beneath the innocence of a child
Is the yearning desire to rebel,
Not against his or her youth,
But against the universal rules of normality,
Whether it be unleashed within a cupboard below a staircase
Or while sitting in the next room over,
Listening to the sound of what magic could be.  
Perhaps if I keep reading,
This fantasy will live on
In a reality that is, instead,
My own.

As a child’s adolescence blooms,
The morbidity behind what it is to
Repeatedly fall victim to fiction  
Is surreal.
Something that non-readers cannot comprehend
Is that the fantasy does live on in a way that is unfair,
For it simply resides in our ever-seeking minds
In which that same desire to rebel, too, lives on;
As I have already come as close as I ever will
To filling that void.

its been so long since I’ve written you down
and since, there have been other you’s that have
come and gone
like these seasons,
steady

so now it is Fall again,
the time last year during which my heart was aching
as you vanished from my side;
I stopped and watched as
you went;
you went so
slowly

i stand now, still abandoned
like a tree from its leaves
but I do stand,
and I wonder what you’re doing now,
but only for a moment
before I continue walking;
listening
as the leaves that were silenced
crunch beneath my sentimental feet.

I  wish that today, I could
demonstrate;
reciprocate
everything you once gave to me;
your blue-eyed glance,
your firm grasp on my hand, &
your love
is still worth 1000 poems
& I'm so sorry
that I cannot
illustrate
that through more than just
these few
short
lines.

made-up quotes about the metaphorical sense of
"moving mountains"
are incendiary to my sweet thoughts;
they anger me into an oblivion
in which these mountains are barriers;
in which they define us.

if I could literally move mountains
I’d do it in a moment’s time;
tearing down all 6,683 ft of their towering elevation;
silencing their spite and
forcing them far, far away;
soothing our tall tensions to ease.

we dwell in opposite margins
of a page that has so much yet to be written;
when I run to you,
I do so in slow motion and one step out of time
as I constantly trip over the alpine ground
that we mistake for a reason why
this isn’t right.  

I cannot literally move mountains,
but if I could,
I would,
and the dissonance
between my heart and yours
would exist no longer.

let’s frighten these mountains into an oblivion
in which we can see just over them
and I’ll touch their peaks to find your hands holding mine;
guiding each other through our separate lives
melded
by love.

somethings not quite right here, dear
the writings on my sheets don’t spell your name
nor does their ink run
at the same, quickening speed as you do
towards their uninviting comfort.

somethings not quite right here, love
i still think of him every time you
forget to remember; a flaw
and I forget to eat
every time i remember his bed

some things will never be right, friend,
such as you and i,
and please don’t cry when I tell you
that i won’t let you watch me sleep anymore
for I’ll wake up too sad to see your smitten eyes
after dreaming again of his hands that
once upon a time, opened mine