I’m lost in my own house
Memories are painted everywhere
They remind me like painful scabs
That my house was once a home.

I’m lost in my house
Because it feels like you are
Around every corner
But I can’t find you anywhere.

Your absence is everywhere.
It has left wells
Invisible inside each room.
Cold, dry, and hollow, they echo you.

They make me swear
That I can hear you
(your pitter-patter,
or your snoring,
or  your breathing)

They make me swear
That I can still see you
(laid down to nap
on the couch,
or on our bed)

They make me swear
That I can still feel you
(lumped beside my feet,
sprawled on top,
of the covers of our sheets)

The only thing real
The only thing left
Is your scent
That still clings to the blankets

Even with all these empty wells
In all of these empty rooms
I have only one hopeless wish.
Just one little wish.

To find you in our house
To make your way back home.

How many tears do you think filled the oceans?
Mine threaten to flood the whole of my world;
and when I sit there at the bottom of the ocean
quiet, and too tired to weep,
I won’t feel the grace upon my cheek,
and you won’t see the tear I shed.

We were born with this box.
It keeps contained in the small of us,
yet is infinite; a world all its own.
And how do you fill a box that knows no bounds?

With love.

Love, fills the aching seems,
to the point where we touch the very edge of our universe,
like hands gliding over the surface of water.
The world within us blooms
into a flourishing home;
our soul set free
of a box that felt like a solitary well of confinement;
we find even sometimes, our box overflows.

But take our love away
and pain is found inside us,
blanketing and filling the absence of everything
Love had once touched.

It’s then you ask God,
how many tears filled the ocean?

I had been at the bottom of the ocean
for so long, waiting for the answer,
that I hadn’t noticed I am now floating,
risen to the surface of this new ocean,
laying on the back of my grief,
among the sun and the stars.

The morning light pranced
around the back of my neck
adding to the weight of expectations
that already leaden the empty
spaces of my book bag.

I tried to focus instead on the cool wind
that twirled around on the concrete platform,
and swam between our ankles,
it's leafy hands
shooing the sunlight from off my shoulders.

This morning (like any other) I was
content in my aloneness.
I knew what to expect from the other strangers
and I felt safer in the distance between us
even as we shared cold metal benches
and hand rails.

I was not there to make a friend.

My stomach wrestled with Anxiety
the only thing to offer was a sip of water
and a weak reassuring thought
as the subway train screeched her greetings.

The doors open.
Strangers out,
strangers in,
myself included.

With an unsure pace I entered into the labyrinth
of lines and tracks and stations
each with a confusing name and color and marker.
Momentum forced my feet to find my place.
Relief found in one empty seat.
Not for long.

You should have known not to.
My body told you no and built a wall
with my book bag and arms guarding
and pleading
to go away
to sit anywhere but here
to talk to anyone but me.
You didn’t listen.

Instead you sat beside me.
Instead you introduced yourself.
Instead you helped this stranger on the train.

And while at times life feels like a road, many times life feels like a train.

You showed me your favorite views
as they raced outside the window
and shared moments as I discovered mine.

We asked about the husband, the boyfriend,
the kids, and the dogs.
We shared memories and stories
and jokes and songs,
and slowly our strangeness became familiar

and then familiar became reliable.
We shared our space
inside the passenger car and rode
together to our separate destinations.

Stops come fast and goodbyes are hard
even when predicted,
but we never really said goodbye.
We smiled and made promises –
ones I tried to keep.

We are now on separate trains.
On separate tracks and schedules.
I sit again alone.
Things in many ways are the same
like the seat I try to get in the back corner
or the views I see outside my window.
But you left without saying goodbye,
without preparing me for the vacant
seat beside me.

I didn't know that was goodbye.

I didn’t know your empty promises
were actually your goodbyes
your signal for the stop to come.

Maybe we had simply been strangers on a train
passing the time,
without need of careful goodbyes.
And I am the fool who didn’t know.

I didn’t know this was goodbye.

Farewell.

I hold my breath.
It pains me to think I filled this basin...
Drop by drop...
So I can burry my head beneath the slap of water.
My hair tickles my cheeks as they swim.
Only when I'm allowed to, I raise my head
(just before I loose the fight with myself
to fill the void in my lungs from my screams).
I cough and listen:
The deafening heartbeat punctuated by whimpers and sloshing water
is broken as foreign air and sound renew the canals of my ears.
Your sweet voice is there
and I listen dumbly - blissfully - to it
as my damp cheeks are met with your warm palms
(like pebbles holding the heat of the sun).
We hold each other.
I remember of fond dreams.
And just as my hair sheds its watery seal,
parting and rising from my scalp in ribbons
I hold my breath again,
stabbing my face into the basin of water.
It's a ritual I'm to practice.
I survive by swallowing my desires and longings,
painful as they are to go down
when only to be brought back up in the end.

Doe, a dear, a female dear…
Ray has lost his golden son.
Me, the monster they ran from.
Far, a long, long way to fall.
Sow, the **** that’s also reaped.
La, the last note sung by “Jane”.
T-***** and injured -- some lost…

And that brings us back to Jane
Doe… a girl who feared the tears
that would come with bottom.

A white herd of buffalo--
angelic ancestors manifest--
galloping in silence
as they cross the Vast.

And here I lay small
in the cooling wake of their shadows
that caress and whisper to me
just as they do the gentle hill beneath
me, and her sisters,
covered in velvet pastures
of gold, of green, of grey, of blue.

And here I lay down
like the animal defiantly far
from his hurd. I'm abandoned
from the blistering heat
and coarse unholy asphalt.

There is a peace in feeling small--
in feeling alone--
and my mind drifts along
with the shadows all around me.

My hair takes up life and plays
like children with the grasses in the wind.
I stare beyond the eagle's cry
where the noble ones above have
become purple from carrying
with them for miles and miles
Hope, pouring clear and wet, and
Grace, flashing a pure stream of light.

And with the first call of thunder
I stand.

With my bones aching with anticipation,
my fingers reaching for the connection,
I stand.

Alive and made plain.

Do you ever forget that you’re alive?
Sometimes I forget.
Like today I remembered while filling up my empty glass
with cool water in the snowy moonlight of the kitchen window.
I forgot I was alive.

It’s something I do.
It’s like looking up from beneath the surface of water
numbed by the safe tepid suspension.
We all have our defenses that protect us from living.
Sometimes the defense is forgetting you’re alive in the first place.
You can make decisions,
talk to people,
but never really be there. . .
never touch. . .
never taste. . .
never smell. . .
never hear. . .
never feel. . .

never commit sensation to memory
out of a deeper fear
of being in that moment
because a moment can last an eternity.

So sometimes I forget because I remember pain.

Red reeds and a freckle of flowers bowing
before rubber wheels
tossing pebbles and sand and a whirlwind of dust.

Their plan had caught wind and taken flight against them,
like an ardent breath that leaps from battle chests
that knowingly march somewhere behind the tall thick of trees.

The rain won the sprint before the inky giants (stuck in the review mirror)
and began to speckle the seats from the gaping sunroof,
but the lovers hadn’t noticed.

Their hearts beat in unison, adrenaline seemingly driving the engine.
Four, bone-white knuckles chocking to hang on:
one pair on the steering wheel, one on the other’s shoulder, and one on the door handle.

The tires drop off and bash themselves against the stones
beneath a spray of clay and water and maggots,
as they swerve off the beaten path.

They wade through the churning waves of grasses
the wind now rushing past, splashing against their spine –
their naked necks and tangled locks swimming in the invisible rapids.

Their sanctuary lay before the whirlpools,
deeply rooted, scarred with letters, scarred with hearts,
and beautifully draped with thin weeping twigs, tied off with lace.

The car’s backend swung as the tires drifted.
The two men flung themselves inside the umbrella of branches,
untied the lacy bows, and drew the curtains closed

The willow tree would have to stand in for their officiant,
for their family, their friends, their honored guests and witnesses,
for they had none.

They both stood in front of the tree as the wind swayed,
once from behind him, and then once from behind him,
all the while their tearful eyes exchanged  silent “I dos”.

The one reached inside a burrow beneath the great trunk,
to retrieve their rings and crowns of flowers,
while the other anxiously stood watch behind him, awaiting the thunder.

Gentle hands ringed their fingers with silver bands,
and crowned their heads with white and blue petals,
then carefully chiseled into the bark their names and their heart with a pocket knife.

The two men pressed their palms to the tree to receive their blessing,
and then pressed their lips together, now salty and wet,
sealing their souls with a slow passionate kiss.

But instead of a burst of rice freely sprinkling the atmosphere
there was a burst of shotgun pellets
tearing through the whispers of love and leaves.

The men sprinted to the car,
dodging the fires of intimidation,
and drove off with their life, leaving behind the fear and shame.

They turned on the heater to try to warm up.
but it was long before they were dry,
the rain’s echo nearly drowning out the sounds of their shared breaths.

Holding a small, bare, baby in the palm of your hand –
          small, fleshy, and lifeless –
                    blue spider webs beneath the cool, pale skin. . .
That’s what I had unearthed,
beneath the watery depths of my name.

We were both on the brink of hypothermia,
slowly dying in the snow by the black creek.
          I found a small hollow of roots beneath a tree,
                    untouched by the white kiss of winter.
I rose to my booted feet, caked in mud.
I splashed, hobbled, and painfully collapsed to my knees,
          my hands cupping the small babe,
as if offering what little we had left to the deaf tree,
before I undressed myself
one arm at a time,
  holding the baby boy up to my bare chest
                    as I pulled my head beneath the collar of my shirt,
                              and flicked the muddy boots off my feet,
                                        and unbuttoned with one hand my wet jeans,
till I was finally naked,
                                        curled up around the small boy who still had a chance.

We huddled there in the ICU beneath the tree
in our small cocoon of earth, snow, and cloth;
and with every exhale, “sorry” escaped my blistered lips.

It was my fault I had found him there
alone and abandoned.

He is the part of me that I feared –
          for and of –
and that I had ripped from inside myself,
leaving it stunted.

But: that cold, saddening, sobering, apologetic embrace
saved my life from being forever incomplete,
and healed the selves
that my actions to protect
had inevitably began killing.

Holding him, that small piece of me,
          the mass of innocence equal to my heart,
holding him is when we became anew.

Today I cherish his fair feminine features
that once puzzled and concerned the mirrors,
and sometimes drape his strong body in dresses
          crowning his mane with wild flowers
so he can twirl and play in the meadow the way he wants .

Today I hold his hand,
          and carry him on my shoulders while he sleeps,
                    slumped, and nuzzled on my head,
as we walk through the world
like a father and son who just finished a day:
          of chasing each other,
                    of wrestling with each other,
                              and of playing hide-and-go-seek for hours.

Today he shows me love and affection
like all men ought to know
like all men ought to show
and teaches me what I had forgotten about myself
          all those years ago.

Dye the ***** water with contaminates:
                         Blue #1,
                                                  and Sucralose, too.

Bend over to spray
                         the rotting road-**** with perfume.

Perfect the recipe
                         for what was fleshed and fruited
                                                  from animals and plants.

Photoshop the starved and diseased
                         with smiles
                                                  and beautiful bodies.

Clothe the *****
                         with lingerie, with heels,
                                                  and with stones.

Paint the roses red.
                         We paint the white roses red.
                                                  We’re painting the white roses red!

a pale shade of pink warms the dead
web of branches
and the grit of brick
behind my back
but inside the shear sweater
the wind seeps
awakening ghosts
that kicks the brittle leaves
and forgotten notes
taunting my skin
like cruel words boys say
coloring the flesh of my breath white
like when we kissed under bleachers
steeping a fear
that you won’t show
that you’ll stay hidden behind a paint-chipped locker
that you’ll stay cold behind your jersey
that I’m not enough to keep you warm

Cold hidden hands holding each other under
        a plaid fleece blanket. . .
Pinkies latching for just a second down
        the cereal aisle. . .
Chests pressing an overdue hug between
        the backs of library books. . .
Shadows snuggling in the back row of
        the dark movie theater. . .
Lips kissing censored by the rain on
        the fogged windshield. . .
And because we’re two men in love, living out
        these innocent acts,
Such displays are still too public for
        you.

Life has no night crew
with mops or those handy yellow signs,
nothing for the vicious viscous puddles
you have forming below your eyes.
So tread carefully on it's stairs,
and avoid suspicious railings,
because Life is slippery when wet.
It won't be before you had blown the water-main,
but the tumbling backwards after
that you will wish you could forget.

In the wake of me and you
the crater in the foam and coils of my mattress
sinks deeper and deeper when we’re together,
and when we’re apart, keeps me up at night
as I cling to the brim of the bed,
trying to stay above the covers,
so soaked in the ache of loneliness. . .
. . .maybe I’m the unbearable load
in this nest of ours.

As I type this, each tic
of the keys creates the words
like morse code taping
prayers into your frequencies.
I feel a bit closer.
I feel a bit louder.
I feel a bit stronger.

S.O.S. lovely.
I pray you make haste
because I’m in this maze
in this sinking ship.
I got lost in my lonely heart
that pumps out the salty, icy, water
I’ve filled it with.

I don’t want to be undiscovered –
a rusted relic with a riddle
yet revealed
because you were the key
that unlocks me with the notes
and frees my heart with the sound
of “I love you.”

I pray to hold you,
to kiss you,
to know you,
to love you,
to be given a name for you
my nameless.

I pray and hope by God’s grace
that he’ll deliver my prayers
so I’ll be delivered
you

Until then,
you keep safe.
Until then,
you stay strong.
Until then,
I’ll keep loving you.

I pray if I don’t find your life jacket,
I pray should we never meet,
that I’ll meet you beyond this surface.
on the other side of the morning.

CQ CQ  ME-UR1 I wait for you. Do you copy?
CQ CQ  ME-UR1 I'm waiting for you. Come Back?

To whom it may concern,

I’m staring at the Knife of Life,
a bark blade from the Tree of Life,
bound to us like our own shadows,
sapping all, from doe to meadows.
A slow torturous fact that sticks
us all the way down to our wicks,
shooting prickling pain up the spine.
Freedom lies in the speed of time.
I don’t know that all have the will
not to hasten their blood to spill,
when patience is waiting to die.

Yours (since God died a long time ago),
The one who yearns
for a flowering fern.

Dear one, who yearns for a flowering fern,

Mortality does bring us Death,
but please know, there is more than pain
before that final ounce of breath
those lovely lungs let flee in fain.
Life’s about swinging on those strings,
warm connections that tie us all,
and caring for each other’s wings,
should lightning strike and have you fall.
Let me pick you up now with love.
You are more than enough to be,
you are worth the space in my glove.
I’ll free you that quivering knee,
just lean in my embrace with hope.
I won’t leave you alone to cope.

With love to fill your days,
The one who hears your cries,
in the void of the open skies,
who will show you better than a magic fern,
a home to mend your broken heart and let return,
because I’m the one who you have to be concerned
for you.

The best armor is a mirror.
Paint it on your bare skin.
People will see things clearer
when they begin to stare in.
They will see themselves in you.
Show each your empty hand.
Walk together, pas-de-deux,
like lambs in any meadowland.
Share your armor with the world,
till all egos disappear.
A love will bloom and unfurl,
and the hatred that sows fear
can finally be thrown aside.
No single life will have to hide.

Another morning I’ve been sentenced,
feeling verb-less,
incomplete,
with my darling noun
I only let down,
when I feel like a child with a numb grip,
dragging him against the ground.

I watch him sleep, my sweet,
shimmering sun against the periwinkle morning
and all glows quiet . . .

but my muck of thoughts smell of rot,
with shadows of vicious vultures—
their black feathers buzzing with dooming vibrations—
smearing their gray against it all.

They’ve grown bored with the feed of palatable pity.
Their cravings threaten to gulp his gushing, golden heart,
bury it in the muck that wishes to swallow my temple.

I think of his holy water and bathe in it;
Thinking in his tears keeps me strong
and carries me down stream.

Each salty orb
wipes the grim and the grime
and refracts the light from his treasure,
his heart, casting
the rainbows that fire
arrows at the shadows.

I find my purpose in the thought of your wailings and weepings,
and I promise I’ll never lose your heart to grief.

Sorry the pillow is wet.
I’ve been crying in your sleep.

The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades
winding the wings of the key.
She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.
                                                         ­          The wooden bench shrinks,
her lips begin to part and let out
                                                             ­          balmy breath of steam
                                                           ­                                                                 ­    a smog that fogs his glasses.
She’s wound and bound to kiss him.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                   He wants this, too.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­     His engine begins to putter
                                                          ­                                                                 ­              as he begins to pucker.
                                                         ­              Their cold lips meet,
and while an explosion in her core smolders,
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                 he feels like a machine,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­    running through the motions,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­             trying to produce magic,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                   but feeling artificial.
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                  A bolt must be *******,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­                       a wire out of place,
                                                          ­                                                               something is jamming his gears,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 a rhythm out of beat.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                  He should feel alive.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  He should want this.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                 He should want this.
                                                           ­             Its just animatronics.
                                                   ­           Aren’t men built to love women?
                                                          ­          He pushes her face off his.
                                                            ­                            Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate,
while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black
like oil streaking her face.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  He’s sorry.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                               He’s so sorry.
                                                          ­                   He hurt her.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                      He hurt a friend.
                                                    Wind so white fills the distance between them
                                                            ­His wet hands grab her red mittens,
but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches
and puts them back inside her cage,
safe in her black pocket,
and walks away, leaking,
busted and broken.
White erases her.
                                                            ­                       He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.
                                                           ­                                                        A dent has shattered his almost love,
                                                           ­                                                        and a first kiss he wished he missed.

Jesus hangs from my rearview mirror,
forced to sway from side to side to the Devil's music --
Big Brother with His ever watchful, weeping lenses.

Most nights I ignore His chimes as He bashes
other charms and mementos on silver chains,
but from the corner of my eye I pray for forgiveness

as His aura changes from red to green.
Sins and skidmarks are left behind the white line
and ***** palms -- wet and hope streaked -- drive the wheel home.

We broke a child yesterday,
and here we are left to pay.

We broke a child yesterday,
ignorant to warnings, now our dismay.

                                                        ­                                                                 Mommy! Mommy! He is afraid,
                                                         ­                                              from the gum, and spit, and word grenade.

                                                       ­                                                              Friend, Friend! Please raise a hand,
                                                           ­                                                         but not to break blood on the sand.

                                                          ­                                                            Teach­er, Teacher! Do you not hear,
                                                           ­                                                                 ­          or see him cower in fear?

                                                          ­                                                                G­od! God! Where are you now?
                                                            ­                                                  He unloads in a gun to help him avow!

Now what seems like any other day,
is broke by thunder, while they play.

We broke a child yesterday,
and here we are left to pay.

We still break children here today,
for race, and size, and mind, and ‘cause they’re gay.

We break children every day,
yet we blame them when they fray.

So say sorry for all who lay,
under a hospital tray, or wet clay.

Close.
The tea steeps
as you begin to step
from wet concrete
through the rust
screen door.
I’ve been skulking
around my skull
and bare cupboards
shelves.
I know I misplaced
our place,
its here somewhere
dusty.
You stand there,
damp denim, penetrating
my focus –
wet.
Wax trail slugs
slide down
hitting bare wood
gentle but as forceful
as a slug
to the jaw.
The moth dyed
the goo with wings
and scales
and fear when it
died.
                                                                                                                                              "Why are you here?
                                                                                                                                                        I’m not ready!
                                                                                                                                                                  Not yet!
                                                                                                                                                            Please stay!
                                                                                                                                                          One minute!
                                                                                                                                                                     Stay!"
So, that’s where it went.
You stole it back
behind broken ribs,
those wounds
when we fell
back.
The tea is black.
I walk till I’m so close
enough that you could close
your arms, pull me in close,
but you don’t, you pull
you’re salt-crusted heart
close.

I don’t remember
a me before I was birthed
into blood and time.

Maybe we are dreams,
made from clotted memories,
of a dying god.

Manifestation,
through the beautiful decay
will free us, this love.

Nothing is a thoughtful word
that we take for granted.

Nothing is everything it’s not.

It is not a word.
Yet we use one to describe it.

It is not a sound.
Yet we say that we hear it.

It is not a place.
Yet we hate when we’re nowhere.

It is not a feeling
Yet we try desperately to feel it.

It is not a person.
Yet there are so many nobodies.

It exists as something it simply isn’t.
Yet I fear it is God and Truth –
Everything.

So why then, in its infinite existing inexistence,
this void that is being without being,
do I exist?

My heart was leadened
a frozen feather
in dense ice
spiraling in a tornado.

I grew colder building
a shell to weigh me down
so I could stop spinning;
I dreamt of shattering,
splinters on the ground.

You were a single ray of light
that pierced the storm,
calmed the grey-green tempest,
and my shell began to melt.

I finally saw rainbows.

Your warm breeze
took hold of my heart,
carried me,
taught me to dance;

But even feathers hit the ground.
So I tied myself
to the cobwebs in your heart
and became your dreamcatcher.

Dream easy now,
our nightmares have disappeared.

I’m pulling out of your driveway,
teeth tingling,
gripping the steering wheel
tightly to brace myself.

You’re still surging through
the fibers of nerves
(my new meaning to muscle memory)
that fire sparks of your touch
replaying us:

Your subtle stubble
tickling my naked neck;

My fingers bobbing up and down
across the ripples of your ribs;

Your tongue in my mouth
trying to tie a knot;

My thighs closing in around you—
a Venus fly trap;

Our eyes exploring
the abyss beyond our pupils.

I’ve become numbed to new sensations,
but I’m blissfully possessed
by your phantom kisses.

My pulse keeps time with the leaky rusted faucet of my bath tub.
Tiny ripples, like cold shockwaves through my body,
wake me

                                from deadly trances.
My streamofthoughts race the fan blades on my ceiling.
Eyes chasing like mice on wheels,
retreating to

                               nowhere fast.
Pebbles thrown, bouncing off well walls like your voice.
Gently it screams, like whispers in silence, “These things take time”.
Never reaching


                                the bottomless black.
Just white noise,


                                a sea foam screen.

Prisms encased bare branches.
Tiny rainbows refracted on the asphalt.
Glass trees
and the golden pink sky
flying by.

You left.
You left me with the sun.
Then it left me too
so I fell as darkness fell.
My hands folded on my chest,
my body straight,
in the casket of my bed, veiled
with warm covers, I slept.

Rapid eyes reconstructed the sun,
painting on my eyelids.
Soft shaded grass beneath my soles,
from the shadow of my house,
That eclipsed the setting sun.
I made my way next door,
with bare feet, lead by my shadow.

I felt your presence.
Gran,
I felt your ghost in my dream.

You sat inside the kitchen,
center, by the table
looking adoringly at the family.
Everyone was laughing and talking.
They seemed to glow around you.

Mom tended to all the guests,
while my aunt made coffee.
There was little food,
little physical evidence of celebration.
Just the smell
of the bitter black beverage percolating,
and kids like firefly
lights, appearing and disappearing
from view as they played
between our legs.

I didn’t know how to say “bye” then,
with your frail chest heaving
and plastic tubes tangled around you.
Silence griped my throat
strangling my “Goodbye,
Gran”.

But, now, you were at the kitchen table,
from unknown horizons,
hugging me,
to give back the time
to speak more loudly without words
what I couldn’t before.

You waited till I had let you go
before making your rounds
to end the last farewell.

I followed you out
as you made your way through the garage
heading west past the blue stones
and the wall of evergreen.
I stopped you before you left the shade
into the golden pink light,
that fiery light,
and gave you another long hug,
and a kiss to take with you
as you evaporated in the glare.

You left as you did before,
Gran,
with the sun.

A dusty beam of light peeked
through a crack in the blinds
waking me;
my cheeks stuck to the wet pillow.
Gran, you always had a way of reminding me to wash my sheets.

The jarring
white page laughs,
mocking my frustration.
I keep deleting efforts, but
I need to cover its face.

I reach for a tiny thread
to wedge between my gums
and wrap around my teeth.
I’ll pull something from my head,

anything to stop the empty stare.
I quickly yank the thread, like ripping
off a Band-Aid, because sudden
pain is better than

a slow

torture.

Ignoring a full bladder,
I walk briskly,
towards Gate 8.

     Where is she?

People await the snake
to wake
with luggage
carried along its rubbery spine.

Hands reaching. Children tugging. Bodies hugging.
Suits racing. Some pacing. Others stopped.
Still no sign…

But there,
the column moves aside
to let my sister wave hi.

As I rush towards her
(closer,
almost within reach
to touch
and reassure her that
I am no mirage)
Her lovely smile distorts
with the salty taste of relief.

I wrap my welcome around her.
A year away,
“So happy to see you”, I say.
All is at ease, including…

I pull her off
“I love you but –.
Restrooms are where?”

Dear Insomnia,

You’ve opened my eyes.
No, you’ve just made them hard to close.
No, still, you’ve made it pointless to close,
since the whirlpools in my head
just **** me into nightmares.

My bed has become choppy with you in it.
So I leave you there to capsize my bed.
I creep like a pervert down my own hallway,
to sit quietly,
on the ice leather love seat,
like the Little Mermaid, longing,
and to watch, with sandy eyes,
the white flash of relief,
as the ****-tube wakes.

As you know,
You can flip through hundreds of channels at 2 a.m.,
to find nothing,
just smiles, like fake
*******, selling dreams
of whiter whites
and chiseled chests.

I wade away,
abandoning my iceberg,
to spy through glass
the ******* the second floor,
my neighbor,
the moon.
I’ve come to know her more these days,
thanks to you,
and her many expressions that hide
her pale face. A mystery.
She too hides herself away in the dark.
A trait we all share.
A friend still,
navigating me back to safer waters.

Yours.

Fracture infinity –
splinter it.
Pause the cresting wave,
let it **** and jitter,
let it fight to break,
let it’s shadow stay a mountain.
Keep possibility
in the womb of the unknown.
Don’t let the water break
the surface of his skin,
because tonight
his skin keeps me warm,
wraps around me,
and our skins fold into something new,
something I want to be,
and I hate my cold feet.

I want to rip my bellybutton open
(tear through the ****** mess of fibers,
the knots of lies I’ve woven,
and the constricting seams that stitch me up)
because I tore off a piece of my soul
buried it deep down inside
and left it to suffocate in the cotton filling,
screaming and shouting
beneath the padding
till it’s voice began to fray—
moth-eaten.