We had spent two days in bed,
   talking,
             laughing,
                          touching.
You said something along the lines of,
"I wonder if we're even still alive?"

When we finally left your room
the sun came pouring in
through your kitchen window;
It drenched our skin
forming silhouettes on the flat surfaces.  

Our shadows stood side by side,
I smiled and said,
"you are only as real as I am, my dear."

I guess that nothing else really does matters.

I.
My mother keeps my letters to Santa
in a drawer by her bed,
and my father keeps my baby teeth
like a handful of tiny ghost  
of the innocence that has been lost.  

II.
I used to be 6 once,
I WAS MAGNIFICENT.
With arms outstretched
I could fly if I willed it;
now I barely move
without trembling.

III.
I smoked my first cigarette
when when I was 12,
and  it wasn't until I was 16
that a boy named Frank told me
I had to inhale.
I blame him for my addiction.

IV.
When I was 18
someone took something from me
that I could never get back.
I hope they keep it safe,
and sharp in their memory
so they do not forget
the tone of my voice when
I let go of my Gods
and said,
"yes."

V.
This week  someone hurt me
and I took it as punishment
for the time I cheated on my boyfriend
when I was 21;
like any former catholic,
I always have to remind myself
that I don't believe in God.

VI.
Last night I went to a party,
and a man told me
I was pretty,
I believed it for the first time in a long time.
I laid my head on his shoulder
and told him I was tired.

It was late June in New York,
humidity was at about 98 percent
and random rain storms
left my hair and face
in a state of disaster.

I looked like my mother
wearing curly hair and defeat
like it was summer's hottest trend.

Andrew said something about
us Californian kids being *******.
My lungs were too heavy to fight back.

"Just 10 more blocks,"
he promised,
as if that was supposed
to comfort me.

When we finally made it to his building
we walked up 7 flights of stairs.
Each floor served as a rest stop
where I would sit and make quiet snide
comments like,
"It's illegal to have a building
larger than 3 stories
without an elevator in California."

We reached his floor, the 7th heaven,
I threw myself on his air mattress
and he turned on the window a/c unit.

I slept until nightfall,
when I awoke
he had prepared dinner
and opened a bottle of Canadian wine.
Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin' spinning on
the record player.
(Andrew would later gift me that record as a parting gift.
And I would later listen to it
every time I thought of him
or New york;
It's still in heavy rotation.)

After dinner we climbed up the fire escape
to go smoke joints on the rooftop.
Andrew asked me how New York
was different from California.
I pointed out that you can't
see the stars in New York
but told him that the skyscrapers
that painted the ***** skyline
were surprisingly just as beautiful.

He smiled to let me know that
there was hope for this suburban girl yet.

There is a tree in my room.
It sheds leaves
that look like everything I have ever lost.
I put them in bags and
take them outside to burn,
as if it would stop the leaves
from falling all together,
but I know they’ll be back.

You are the ghost of all the people
I have loved
and been loved by,
that feeling I get when I remember
what it felt like to be touched by someone
who meant it.

You are the fear
when I realize I destroy
most things I touch
and am unworthy of ever
learning to say your name.

You are a poem that my weary hands
have yet to learn how to write.
They tremble with so many words
wanting to bleed out.

You are the empty spot
in my bed
when there is so much room
that it aches.

You are a planet full of
beautiful things
I have never seen,
so many light years away
that I could not possibly
scale or comprehend the distance.

I am tired.
My heart can’t trace your shadow
for much longer.

You must be near?

I laid on my side like a mountain that admires the city lights below.
Your gentle face, the object of my attention.

Last night,
our shadows on the walls
were giants dancing.
I let you come closer,
I bet you could taste the smoke in my breath.

You slept quietly and only made noise
when you would turn your body from east to west,
and like a child watching a wave unfold,
I would move back as if
to not let your ocean touch my feet or
catch me looking.

There's very little you reveal about yourself,
you're a mystery that I've known of for a long time
and I know that watching you sleep
is the closest I will ever get to you.
I'm okay with that.

Sometimes throughout the night our hands would interlock,
our legs tangle like vines,
and If ever you faced west you would kiss me softly on the forehead.
I would smile
but with your eyes closed, I'm sure you could not tell.

Your mouth,
I bet it is a garden
where buried secrets
make flowers grow
and nobody  will ever know.

I want to know.

As I walked through my old room,
I stopped and swept
my finger across the dust;

My room and I,
we were both empty,
no one tended to us.
Every vacuous corner
a reminder of
that which had been lost.

My mother, she held me
but it wasn't close enough.
She could never again,
I was too big,
and she knew
all my sins.

My father with fist up
fighting shadows
to attempt to protect me from that
which we both knew
he could not.

Last time I was here
I slept with lights on.

I.

Your fingers danced on my knees so gracefully.

they knew their stage well,

the had danced there many times before

   but never so freely,

this was the first time we had ever been alone.

II.

There was a band aid on your finger and

you told me about some sander wheel,

or something or the other.

I showed you my scars from a previous job

but we only discussed the scars

that were visible to the eye.

I’m still convinced

you wouldn’t understand

the ones that lay beneath.

III.

The bar lights had a blueish tint;

while we waited for our drinks  

I watched them

gently grace your brow,

you smiled.

You have such a genuine smile,

it always seems to whisper, “come closer,”

even without a spoken word,

IV.

You pulled my hands into yours

and asked why they were always cold.

I thought it was because

most of my time, I spend alone.

So for just one cold handed, blue tinted moment,

I wanted to call someone mine

I kissed you,

and you looked at me

as if you could possibly love me...some day.

V.

As much as try to fight the idea of you,

and I fight it with both fist up,

as if to prevent you from hurting me

before you even try.

I’m starting to notice your absence

and even have come to detest it at times.

In this bed I lay with bended knees.
Bended knees like a bookmarked
page in your favorite book
to remind you where you left off.

      To remind you that you still can come back.

I am
an anchor
at the bottom
of this sea of people.

Sea - of - people,

funny,
the smallest things
always make me think of you.

Everybody drinks too much,
everybody talks too loud,  
everybody laughs at things they don't find funny,
and sometimes they dance;
bodies so close
I bet they could feel each other's heart beats.

Heart - beats,

Do you remember
how you laid your head on my chest
and claimed
you could hear the ocean?
When we kissed
you said our lips were the waves
crashing
against our body's shore,
over and over
and over again.

I can't believe
I thought this would
help me to forget that I love you
or maybe more so
forget that you don't love me.

With a drink in hand
I watch these fools
engage in one night stands,
and it makes me so incredibly
lonely.

I ******* hate parties.

I think about calling you

when I’m alone Friday nights,

I imagine you all alone too.

You’re probably watching action movies

and eating frozen dinners.

I think about all the things I would say like,

I’m sorry,

or I was wrong,

and would you like to **** me,

or can I have my record player back at least?


P.S. Have you seen my pea coat?

I.
My memory of you plays like an old film
I know it word for word, and scene for scene:

YOU* fall sleep on my shoulder, and
I whisper something
into your tousled brown hair
in hopes of instilling these 3 little words
and this feeling
into your subconscious being

I and LOVE and YOU.

rewind, replay, over and over and over..

II.                          
I yearn
         to be
           that close
                to *anyone again.

III.
There are days like today
when I remember that  
YOU are still breathing,
and someone knows YOU better
and holds YOU closer
than I ever did
or could ever again…
                  and I begin to understand
      why good men go mad,
           write poetry,
                 smoke cigarettes
         and drink too much.

My God, what a ******* gaping hole
sits inside of me today.
It eats at my sanity and
I'd like nothing more than
to fill it with *****,
and Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin' on vinyl.

When you're this alone no one calls
and if they do it's just the bill collectors
and they only want what you can't give,
much like everybody else.

I.
I spent the night trying
to stare god in the face
with a bottle of ***** and
a pack of cigarettes.
Michael laughed because
he says I keep looking for things
that can't be found.
I'm constantly setting myself up
for disappointment.

II.
The sky wore a starry face
and inviting as it may be
it was a reminder that the sun
will consume our planet one day  
and my son will be the only one that will
think of me for short periods of time,
at random moments, throughout some days.

...I guess that nothing else really matters.

III.
I have too many questions, Mother;
none which I really want answers for.
the truth is heavy and
I'm lifting my limit.
So will you just tell me it will be okay.

IV.
A drunken embrace has
left me with blues.
He said "I've never kissed a stranger."
and I asked him if he'd like to try.
Lips holding each other like hands;
It felt like EVERYTHING
to not be so alone for one moment.

V.
In your car,
a song playing on the radio,
every note caressed my memory
like a finger ran softly down my naked spine
and I felt for the first time in a long time
not afraid of everything.

I feel like an old poet;
soul and face in a ship wreck like state.
Into the ocean my beauty
over the rocks my wish to create
and no longer relevant
are the things my heart yearns to convey.

The kids, they used to love me,
man I used to be so cool!
As the crow's feet leave their mark
this broken heart just
makes me look like a god ****** fool.

No one to turn to,
no one read these wounded rhymes,
too much responsibility to just give up;
I'm left wanting to
but not actually drinking wine.

Like an old poet, these shaky hands
just want to love
to touch someone and to be touched.
Like an old poet I wish to never need to write a-gain
because the only feeling I know to express
is the deepest pain.

My birthday is in five days
and for the first time ever
it's not that I want to be alone,
it's just that I am.

I.
That stone is mine,
please do not touch it
I've been giving it love for so long.
I would hate for anyone else
to finally get its reaction

II.
I put my life on hold
just to be its home:
my arms the walls
my knees genuflecting its thrown  

...and the ceiling,
my crooked and aching neck bone.

III.
That stone is mine,
let me wipe off its dirt
So it could open its eyes
and see how much this hurts.
That stone is mine,
let belong to me,
I wanted to show it that
not everybody will leave.

IV.
And now, I dare not ask it
why it can not love me
because knowing
that it actually doesn't
would mean
I would have to set it free.

V.
That stone is mine,
I'll carry it by myself
because it can't be heavier
than what it weighs to be alone.

I
miss you
       at night;

when I tuck my feet in

they
  look for
    yours still.

It's getting close to Christmas
and I'm scared to be alone.

ii
resting on the ground;

i left the best parts of me

in your tousled room.

like the trash, disregarded,
they sadly collect your dust.

iii.
if they call your name

slide them under the couches,

quiet them for now.

amongst your things they will hide;
erased from your heart and mind.


.

My dear I fear the ocean will swallow my ship whole

…It's only a matter of time now.

I was once its great captain
but now I am merely its captive,
begging to no one to be set free.

I wish I was like you,
I would declare war on the merciless hands of the ocean
and lord knows I would win.

...if I was anything like you. I am not.

Although I know the water will burn
through my letters like fire,
instead of fighting,
I cowardly continue to compose the most beautiful words
that you will never see.

You're the only one that knows
that I am nothing like anyone here

And I know now that loss is the only kind of pain.

I've been trying to phone you;
for a few months now actually.
I just want to tell you that I miss you
and that sometimes the whole sky reminds me of you.

You're always traveling to new places,
your inability to sit still for more than four seconds
is both your gift and your curse.
I never know where you might decide to rest your head.
(if you even feel inclined to sleep at all)
I envy that about you.

We once very drunkenly shared
a kiss in the summer rain,
in the middle of a street, in Brooklyn.
(It's one of my most favorite memories)
We laughed so hard and hailed a cab
and you told me that you one day hoped
to love a woman as much as you love New York.
You have such a way of putting your poetic thoughts
into beautiful prose.

Last I heard you were in Amsterdam.
I can see you now...
Smoking Marijuana, telling clever jokes
that no one will understand,
preaching about the constellations or maybe
your favorite albums;
which of course should be listened to
through the crackles of dusty vinyl
and eating ONLY the best of food in tiny cafes.

I hope you are well my friend, my thoughts are with you
along with a hope that another strong wind will ******* your way again soon.

Sometimes I purposely lock stares with strangers
for a little longer than it is comfortable to do so.

I'm not sure why I do it...
Maybe it's a fear of being unmemorable
or maybe just feeling that awkwardness is a reminder
that I am still alive,
that they're still alive,
that we are still alive together.

It's true,
there is a loneliness so vast that lingers over us
that it might as well be the sky
and as heavy as an anchor weighing us down like ships in the sea
but it's the knowing that we still need each other
that makes that loneliness beautiful.

Not one man is an island,
this loneliness makes us alike
and eventually brings us together.

There is something so beautiful about the human spirit,
let it not be denied.
Our lives, full of giant disappointments
wars, and fears but we continue moving forward
SOLEY for those rare and short lived moments of happiness.

I find that to be incredibly empowering and comforting.

On a Summer night in possibly the sketchiest park in town
With a tall can of cheap beer and two already empty bottles of surprisingly cheaper wine,
We laid in the grass and admired the spinning sky.

We couldn't see the stars but we settled for the moon

I looked over at you and
you knew I was looking but pretended to not notice
you tried your best to look handsome

You are always so handsome

You turned to me and asked, "do you ever write about me in that little black diary you always carry around?"
I laughed out loud and honestly responded "no, not yet."
With a playfully offended or frustrated tone you said "What's a boy gotta do to get into that little black book of yours?!"

it was probably my second or third most favorite night in the history of ever
so here it is, a page in my little black book for you Mr.

Mrs. Boon, she is 102, she will be 103 next February.
She told me that when she was young a prophet told her she would
live to be 144
"104!" My mother jokingly corrected her.
My mother had heard this story many times before, she was her caregiver.
Mrs. Boon said "same difference they're both way too long."
I liked her she was sassy.

She said "My dear, never marry."
That was funny because I had an argument with my mother that morning
about that very subject,
my mom wants me to marry a clean cut catholic boy and
I want to...well...be alone and travel the world and
kiss handsome men with thick accents.

Mrs Boon complained about all her diminishing abilities and senses,
"I can't see, I can't hear, I can't think, I can't stand for too long! I don't know why the lord doesn't take me" she cried.
All I could think was that I was only 21 and felt exactly the same way.

She looked at me before we left and very sincerely asked,
"will you visit me again, I know I could get better if I had a good spirit like yours around"
I smiled and softly graced her hand that was swollen from the ivy.

I knew I could never see her again she reminded me of my mortality.
And that reminder weighed heavy like a rock on my chest

It was the reminder that most of us will end up alone
breathing air from a tank and watching
re-runs we recorded in previous years of The Price is Right.

While browsing through one of your fancy medical magazines
I read an article that stated that
most of us will die due to a heart related issue.

You tried to grab the magazine out of my hand
before I turned this into discussion on existentialism.
(too late)

"Ha!" I couldn't help but laugh...

"The mind is the real killer,
we all know that!" I exclaimed.

"The rejections, the let downs,
the mistakes, the loses, our own self esteem,
our unaccomplished dreams,
replaying over and over and over and over in our heads;
eating away at our sanity.
Now that's what gets us."

You sighed dramatically as I continued to ramble on...

"In fact you're lucky if your heart dies out before your mind does;
But If you're like most you'll live life like a zombie
with a heart that beats like a champion."

At this point your eyes had already glossed over, you were probably thinking about ice cream or the weather but I carried on...

"We think therefor we are.
In our miserable little thoughts we will find both our lives and our deaths."

You stood up and headed for the kitchen to serve yourself a giant bowl of ice cream.
I knew you were thinking about ice cream the whole time.

I pass the places we were
one year ago today
not purposely,
it's just that my Gods seem
to have an ill sense of humor.

Walking slowly, numbly, dreamlessly around
a blinking city
that refuses to belong to me
ever again.

With every step kicking up clouds of dirt
in form of awkward memories
from not too long ago
that feel like a hazy far away dream.
it is easier to pretend they were merely that.
Reality is much harder to accept.

Bright Cakes with soft candle light
that graced your brow.
And I find myself hoping and wishing
I didn't know that you were doing so well,

if so...I'd be able to lie to myself
and imagine that you think of me
a little sometimes.

I hope you found what you wanted,
what you relentlessly worked so hard for.

Happy Birthday.

Your heart,
it is light and pure and honest...
and mine,
mine is heavy
but unknowingly and oh so sweetly
you help carry the weight

And on Sunday mornings
when you awake in my bed and you smile, yawn, blink,
stretch or even just breath,
I think,

NO, wait,

I know,
I was born just to see the green of your eyes.

Your tiny hands are a compass
not because they point
or because they fit perfectly in mine
but because I will always follow them.

Let me please always be a warm bed,
a piece of peace,
a comfort.
Soft, safe and quiet and still.
Soft like my mother was;
with her hands caressing my skin
she could heal any and all wounds.

In whispers let me sing,
"I want to tell you how much I love you,"
as your lids slowly and softly cover your eyes

See everyone I know is hurt, a little crazy and tired
but we smile like drunken fools
ignoring the voice inside that's begging us to scream

days they go by so fast
and we do not do the things we feel inside we should
We live a life based on hate because of laziness or comfort
We work the jobs we hate, we talk to the people we hate,
we live in the small rooms we hate

we sit like trees in one spot
with our roots planted so deep
we know we could never move

We owe ourselves travel, music, art,
we owe ourselves a fist in the air, kicking and screaming revolution
because we will not go down as a the sleepy generation
It's plain and it's simple
we are vital and we owe ourselves not to be the walking dead

Chalk stained clothes and hands like children,
you were never a stranger to me once.

Solar system, city lights,
lives that go as fast as subway cars.

This is not that kind of ride

Assasining down the avenue in Brooklyn,
Comedy in record shops.

Elliot Smith's XO is still the best

Make me dinner again,
I'll drink your Canadian wine.

Smoking on fire escapes...Ironic or appropriate?

You, Mr. made staying in one place a little more difficult than it was before.

Now I am hanging like a swinging pendulum between two cities.

My brain calls for familiarity,
My heart calls to feel more alive.

as I sky watch a sea of glaciers
from and airplane over you
all I know for sure is that I left a piece of me laying in Your bed,

Below melting record players and ***** skylines

We sat cross legged like children for hours
underneath giant trees and vast gray skies.

As if they were our elders telling us stories
we stared so attentively at their swaying branches.

I whispered to you "the storm is coming,
I can smell it in the air."
You took off your jacket and so softly placed it on my back
as if not to break my fragile bones.
you said "Chivalry is not dead!"
and smiled the saddest smile I had ever seen.
You looked so empty but there was slight optimism that I dared not rob you of.
So I just smiled back.

You were looking for something, I know,
maybe a sign but baby, you weren't going to find it there
but I'd wait it out with you.

I laid back and observed the the slightest bit of sunlight
peeking through all the branches

I thought at that moment that you were a lot like those trees;
So beautiful and full of secrets