The rain is not forged
As I would hope your tears would be
Running down your once rosy cheeks
That have been tinted blue
By me

We've been spending time
Between lines of fine writing
Transcribed by two scribes,
Deciding to type instead of verbalizing.

We'd scrawl on scrolls
And scribble out whole paragraphs;
Laugh at our mistakes,
Providing comfort for each other's sake,
Never was a time we'd make the other person break,
Never was a rhyme to make the other person stay away,
Just a little get-together sort of play date
That I'd hope we'd get to keep for at least a few more days,
Cuz a life in her presence is the type I'd like to take.

sometimes i wish i could find you
like this—
seated alone in a place where you find
some sort of solitude from
the flashing lights
the loud sounds and
the brushing of shoulders with people
who you may never see again;
it’s always like this.
it seems to be fast paced and wild,
wonderful and lonely in the way you live.
so perhaps if i came across you seated this way,
in a table by the window with a cup of hot chocolate,
you would offer me a seat
and i would watch the sunlight kiss your face
and i would offer you a room in my heart,
tell you “come here, be with me,
tell me how your day went
and how you are feeling.”
and perhaps we’d share our favorite songs
and this moment of ours would feel like one
meant for the silver screen,
but it would be ours,
tucked away from the noise and the ordinary.
and perhaps i’ll be able to know you the way i wish i could:
talking over cups of hot chocolate like good old friends.
i’ll show you my world
and you’ll show me mine,
no matter how different they seem to be.

Waiting.
Watching.
The mirror in the hallway.
The sky is grey as your eyes follow the beam
of the streetlight into the
mirror in the hallway.
You close the blinds
vertical turned linear,
beams of light.
You drag your gaze to the mirror in the corner of the hallway.
You deadpan,
stare at your hands.
Raw, soft, red, frail.
Anxiety under your fingernails.
You poke at your skin,
you shove the pins
into your fingertips.
Where did these pins come from?
People call them safety pins, but now they’re preventing us
from putting the safety on these
metal weapons we point at ourselves in
deep reflection.
I DON’T KNOW MY REFLECTION.
I’ve been sitting with pins in my fingertips for years
I’ve been staring at the lights for months,
I’ve been looking in the corner of the mirror for weeks,
I’ve been gazing at the door for days.
I’ve been waiting for hours.
I’ve been waiting for myself to come home through
the reflection of the door from the mirror in the hallway
and take the (safety) pins out and kiss me on the cheek though
the glass and say
“You are enough, you are perfect, you are beautiful”
The street lights are on again.
I drop the blinds again
vertical lights turned linear.
The sky is a deeper grey.
The pins are still in my fingertips.
Death is under my fingernails.
Darkness is at my door.
Street lights can only light up so much at a time
And I’ve been in the shadows for months.
I’ll keep waiting.
I’ll keep gazing.
I’ll keep looking.
I’ll keep staring.
I’ll keep sitting.
The light has to come soon
The shadows will fade soon
Darkness will leave my door soon
Death will be cleansed from my nails soon
My reflection has to come home soon
The safety will put back on soon
I will be home soon
I swear on it.

These pins can not stay in my fingertips forever.

I will take them out for myself when I get home.

I am almost home.

The glue that attempts
To mend my heart
Is artificial
But I guess
I'm no different
Anyway