I read the obituary and think of you.
I think of us together and how one day,
we won’t get to choose life or death.
It’ll just happen and one of us will be left
without the other. When I read books
about lovers trying to move on after
their sun goes out, I can’t handle it.
When my grandma died, sure I was upset
for losing her, but I was on edge by the thought
of my grandfather sleeping alone from then on.
And I know it’s so far away and I know
that it doesn’t make sense as a twenty-something
to think about it. But I want to tell you I love you
every time I hear someone has died. I want to run
my hands over your skin and make it permanent.
I want to believe that there’s an afterlife and we all just
become reconnected. When I hear someone has died
I want to hear your voice against my cheek, sighing my name,
over and over again.

I want to imprint on you. Just as the girls before me.
Don’t lie at me and say I can’t see the sharpie marks on your skin.
I got drunk because I knew I couldn’t kiss you sober.
I stumbled into you like you were the bathroom at a bar.
I took a look around and I couldn’t even miss them: drawings, words,
phone numbers and lipstick kisses. **** the mirror; don’t look at me.

Don't make me read a biography.
They're always such a tease and I
always want more. When did your
first tooth come out. Whose been lucky
enough to kiss you. Don't tell me where
you went to school. I don't care what
year you graduated: tell me where you
ate lunch, tell me what songs got you
through that bus ride home.

You're telling me the skeleton, give me
the flesh, give me the intricate details of
your nerves and cells. I don't want no
flashcard facts, give me that scrapbook
your grandma made. Let me see you get
embarrassed. Just let me see you.

My mother brought down the storage
box from the attic. I swore it was bigger.
I went through every single picture,
pulling aside all the ones I wanted
to bring back to Tallahassee with me.
I didn't think it could mean anything, but
I have no proof to show of my vacant father.
No picture of my clumsy, pre-teen years
where I weighed more than my mother.
When I pick out the pictures I want on my wall,
it's the past that I created for myself.

You left faster than the door
could open from its hinges.
It swung while the scent
of blueberries and milk
and the memories you held
diffused throughout my lonely
room, on my lonely bed
where you had just slept --
where we had slept, but
don't come back.

I will hurt my boyfriend the most. But he started it and though he thought
we finished it together, like civil adults talking about how to better
our relationship. I finished it later --
alone in my room, crying and pleading for something better, different.

You gotta understand --
When it's good, it's so good,
but when it's bad,
I have to write about it.

And I will find a new boy who doesn't care about that,
                                                           ­       I respect the art, he'd say.

You gotta understand --
I will do this to you, too.
You are my next poem
and it will probably be ****** and make you cry.

Not in a sense that I want to own it, or
that I want to take it away from others and conquer
the ways for which it stood and whoever might
have been there before me.

But I want to name an island.
A cryptic, unforgiving name and not in a sense that
I’ll be leaving it, because of the harsh and abrasive things its done.
Not because I was ready to be left standing there
not knowing the starting and ending point,
like how I was left in your bed.

You didn’t make coffee or ask me what time
it was or if I wanted a shower.
You don’t black-out the sun anymore.
Now at nine in the morning the sun shines early through the window
and the aqua walls flood and I’m stranded on
your brown-plaid bed, in the middle of your room and
you just swam off.

And I’m naming it nothing,
because why would I name an island when I have no one to share it with?

There were always so many lizards and cat statues made out of china. But at some point what started to matter more were the boys on the pubescent school bus yelling obscenities and stealing ****** kisses from girls stuffing their bra and being too cool to wear Limited Too. It became difficult to imagine the lizard cage behind the duplex, a chain-linked refrigerator box, when there was a school dance to be embarrassed at while forming dance circles, soda can in hand. Then standing on the corner waiting for my dad to take me home before any of the late night talk shows aired.

Flash-forward: A blow-up air mattress in the middle of the living room at five in the morning and we were high.

We’re growing up from: the VW that smelled of crayons,
skipping class to go to the library downtown,
the greasy spoon diner,
the Goodwill,
fall outs, anxiety, lorazepam, writing ****** poetry,
getting popsicles from whole foods and eating them in the park during winter.

The sun’s lavender light peaked through the closed blinds while the satisfaction of making out with a boy who likes boys felt as good as the realization that girls don’t always have to like boys either.

There’s a chance I could still catch a lizard.
And yea it’s cliché, but **** happens and things change.

Teaching me the correct way to make
a paper airplane. He took me to his bindery.
The machine beats bustled and roared and shook
the unruffled metal walls that made me feel
like I was sleeping in the middle of a dragon’s
den, its snoring breaths protecting me
from fathers who didn't know how to be fathers.

I just finished losing all my teeth,
the new ones growing in at different speeds,
my front two like frozen stalactites from different
ice ages. My hair was banana yellow blonde and I liked
to compare myself to a younger Britney Spears.

A potential avalanche of paper next to the metal walls,
vexed by one deep exhale and the pieces
would go up and around like dandelion parts.
My father, forever bound to binding the parts together.
He brought me a single sheet and began twisting and folding.

I always hated him for his genes, for having a Russian
heritage that made me annoyed at the klutzy appendages we shared.
Is it funny that I lie and say I'm Welsh?
It's not funny that I can remember every detail of his over-sized,
meaty hands, how he kept that silly ring on his finger,
the graying knuckle hairs peeking out:
free me!

Not to say I think about him every time I make a paper airplane,
but not to say I don't.

I smoked my first and last cigarette on your porch after consuming six nameless beers (that made me too drunk.) I thought: this is how I die. I thought: I’m not going to die. And I remembered that

I created this memory before it happened. You sang notes in your soprano my alto was jealous of. There was no grass, but cement and I had wished that you told me you

lived in the ****** part of town. A man came up and asked for our butts. I giggled, take the rest. There was a mason jar of damp butts and he stole them from you a week earlier. I

wanted to finish the eighteen pack but my body was so full and there was only one night to sleep on your mattress on the floor with quilted murmurs. Can I remember the ghost and the German Internet boys? I woke up still drunk and you drove me to Jacksonville.

The **** blooms weren’t even that pretty
and the nicest thing on the ground was dead.
Gas trucks and red cars turned up the earth;
we should get out of here.

It was orange zest in the middle of doughy flour,
a risk that not many chefs take.
It was leaves from autumn, twisted
and forgotten under shoes of  hikers.
It was the sunset sand art that dropped, soundly
to the ground, left for brooms and vacuums.

Outlined like the eyes of an Indian princess,
the wings left its powder matter, a footprint,
by the shoreline and asphalt.
But the Earth didn’t care;
and the **** blooms, the chefs, the hikers, the brooms,
they didn’t care. What a treacherous thing,
to take a risk when you think people care.

You and your Greek hair
slanting on the table and
smiling:

Trolius and Cressida in the morning.
Could you imagine? With coffee mugs
and grape leaves in their hair? Cressida
with a loaf of bread, standing over an
aroused Troilus, "Stop pressuring me,
Sweet Honey-Greek!" While the crowd
laughed and clapped,
this is all a misunderstanding.

Stop pressuring me, sweet Honey-Greek.
Christmas tree lights weaved in and out of your eyes
and I was reminded that I once
gave up on you.

Your mind turned up as sprigs throughout the summer.
Sprigs of Honey-Greek and sprigs of you:
on land, under my window,
behind the basketball court.
And I thought I chopped them all up.

Cressida built a blanket fort
and Trolius thought it was a
reason to sprout.

There were sprigs of Honey-Greek underwater;
and then I gave up. How can you think with all that stuff on top of you?
You can’t even breathe. You’re not even breathing.

Dabbed in green and purple watercolor feelings
of the Tallahassee summer we’re living in.
Speckled with moods and lighting,
missing the components of cheap desire
brought on by a mixed tape and
deep red wine that I’ve never actually tasted.
Why write you a love letter when I can love myself?
Or when I can write about the uncertainty of love?
Why write a love letter that you’ll read,
but not understand?

I was thinking of opening the door,
I thought if I were trapped in the bathroom
of a twenty-something girl that I would
like to be let out.

There were gray and black clothes draped
on things, layered on the floor.
Cups and cups and plates and a trash can
in the corner under a poster of guitar chords.
It was just full of paper and scraps and bills.

I don't want to offend her.
Welcome to my home,
and she would gleam and shrug.
If she could speak it would
be something like, Oh its nice

So this ghost,
I tried to open the door and it was so cold.
I touched the **** and I was
in the mountains. You had pulled over
at the scenic overlook. I was wearing flannel
and converse. I couldn't imagine the snow,
there was so much and you laughed at me.
What, its just so beautiful.
I had never seen trees so bare and a view
so white, gray. I held the whiteness
in my hands, it was so cold and
you laughed again.

I wanted to let the ghost in,
welcome to my home,
but it was so cold and I couldn't hold it.

I heard her sign, I could almost see her
placing her chin on her palm,
right leg over left.

you left a sock and
it is now under my bed,
one of the socks that you left
after a night of close elbows
and hands,
it is under my bed and i will
keep it until we are staring
into space,
legs criss-cross
knees so close
your skin tempting me,
i will keep it until
you breathe short hot breaths
from your nose,
until you refuse to look
me in the eyes
and refuse to hold
my hand,
quivering from thoughts
in my head
that you’re not erasing
with words,
only then will i take
it out and hand
it to you, knowing
full and well
when you left it here

We played tic-tac-toe
on your knees and God
didn't even strike us down.

We were driving down the two-lane
highway that stretched the length
of a nature preserve. It was mucky
and humid and the gnats coated
the outside of our car. We made
a wrong turn and I wanted to swim
in the thick water. Cut to: my house
in the future, your house, with large
windows to let the sun in. We had
every kind of pet and the bird
hated us so we let it go. I had this
kitten and we went to a bookstore
where I found my favorite author's
novel and he wrote me inspiring,
witty notes. I didn't buy it though.
I can't remember who you were.

my heart wants to break
but the muscles won’t allow it
the muscles that i made
with my cells
not that i mean to take credit
but when did my body
start using its secret messages
to betray and withold emotion from me

my heart wants to break
but it can’t
how much longer until
my body’s electricites
travel and tire of this
constant need (want?) to fall
                                             apart

I thought, you. And then I stared and wished that I was back
in your line of sight, that time that you tried to
take a photo of me and I held up my hand. You had never
even touched it. It was deemed artsy and you used
me to pick up chicks who thought you were creative. The many
times I thought yes, and felt yes from you too. But all
we did was stare and I want to touch your Greek hair just
once. And I sold smiles and sweets to strangers while
you gave out pop and judgements. How comedic, how blase.
How soon could I get you to never stop thinking about me?

You’re wearing my favorite shorts today,
the red ones with embarrassing paint stains.

They’re your favorite too, since
you’re in them at least four times a week.

A recurring event, like your tendency to stop
emotion for a brief second.

That was the time the radio played the same five songs
every hour.

We embraced on sheets that I did not buy,
that you did not buy.

Twirling our feet in semi-permanent
interior paint, light ocean breeze.

Through the grocery store, down aisles of food
we’ll never try, because spaghetti is just so **** good.

I didn’t want to go in but you convinced me that it was a must.
We live the essence of the shop; we are the year-round tourists.
The aisles were too close and you weren’t enough. My sunburnt
shoulders touched hanging cotton and beads and masks and I tried
on that skimpy sequined top that made me look like a popstar. You
said, ooh la la. You said, say something to me in French [Je ne t’aime
plus.] Then laughed, wandering toward the snow globes. You held
it with such care and I wanted to be kissed in one, one that you held,
precarious, in your goofy hands. With cuticles I always try and
push back, like you with the wisps in my face. But why, your eyes
are the oceanside town and I want to put them in the snow globe,
you said while watching the fake flakes fall.

I haven’t written one word about you.
You, the source, the spring-head, the furled
man that lives in the corner of a *****
motel where salty sand meets asphalt.
I haven’t told you I’m a writer, that I want
to write until my hand is mush and the paper
is covered with my slime memories.
Like the humor, choler, fire. The yellow
fire of your beer spilled on the glass
coffee table; the orange fire of the hot
dish soap water cleaning out the stingray
sting (Mom was so mad); the red fire
of your red-neck in the sun by the rusty
fenced-in pool. I haven’t told you I don’t
miss you, or that I do.

its really weird to see the handwriting of those you used to know. and to see their email, read their syntax and know they will never write you again. maine wasn’t the same with out her, and everyone knew it and we didn’t even talk about it. not that i was going to be the first person to bring it up, and i sort of wanted to avoid it anyway, because i was being so good about not crying for a while. papa was the only one that said something and he said it to me on the porch with just us. it had dropped twenty degrees and i wasn’t wearing socks and he came right over, a little drunk maybe, and told me that he didn’t think he’d find happiness after all that, but being in york with us makes it that much easier to believe that time will change that. then he patted my head, called me dan and went back inside.

when they're underwater.
How can you think with all that stuff
on top of you?
You can't even breathe.
You're not even breathing.

We were in your car,
I was wearing yellow see-through underwear
and you still had all your clothes on. The idea
of taking all mine off made you nervous.
I could tell by the amount of times you snapped
my skin while your embarrassed fingers tried
to take off my bra.

I could hear the cicadas outside when your heavy
breathing was masked by my own mouth covering
yours. My hair, that had once been in a well-brushed
bun, stuck to my temples, forehead and back of the neck,
where I got chills thinking about what we were doing.

I took off your plain white t-shirt and you hit
your head on the roof of your forest green Saturn.

Now I just keep thinking about your loud fan creaking
through your ceiling. How in the dark, we pull at each
other’s bodies under a heavy comforter, with no sheet.

There are too many pillows on your bed. A detail I once found
endearing, convinced you held onto them when you missed me.
But even with my back turned to you, front facing the wall, you
held on to those stupid pillows while I kicked the extras onto the floor.

It's not what we talk about,
lying face to face,
pillow to pillow,
but the feeling I get with
the white-light speckled
across your already
freckle-speckled cheeks,
feeling that this is it:
no one will ever witness
this world wonder ever again,
where you are one
hundred percent mine.

my grandfather will walk me
down the aisle.
I don't want an upset,
but you had made the decision.
You never gave yourself to me,
so why should I let you throw
me away to another man
that has all the potential of you?

I am not getting married.
I am not writing vows or eating
cake or throwing flowers.
I am learning that it wasn't
all your fault, but mine too.

And there was your love,
stuck between the sheets and under
the bookshelf and behind my ears.
Though it couldn't get much worse,
you went on about your mother
and her calloused ways
and I was reminded of my father
and his calloused hands.
Once you begged me to stay -
hidden in your dresser drawer so you
could use me for when you
needed to feel like a person again.
There wasn't a time where I thought
I couldn't love you.
But there was your love,
blown around the room like dandelion parts
and I thought it couldn't get much worse.

I don't mean to get mad at you
while you're laying there
in the warm, twisted cotton, oblivious.
I don't want to hate you while
you breathe too loud
or talk too much
or do that thing where you
chomp down on yourself,
because this is you:
fully exposed, vulnerable,
and I just want you to stop,
but you look so nice there.