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.

You are a ghost lost in the hallways of my brain,
the gaps between my fingers and,
the space between my lips.

I'd like to show you the way out
from beneath my bear trap ribs;
I don't know how to be your keeper
just as much as you don't know how to be kept.

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 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.

When I allow myself to think of
the first mornings we spent together,
I think about how you kissed my shoulder
with sleep still in your eyes;

I remember watching the the city blocks
whimsically turn to fields
and back to blocks again
from the train window,
on my way home.
The train rides were never
a clear picture
as much as they were a feeling,
as thoughts of you consumed me.

I thought about your small,
hot apartment,
the grand weight of our wallets,
empty.
The exaggerated love/lust
as our bellies swished,
full with cheap *****.

Contrary to how it sounds,
this is not a love letter
as much as it is a lament for a person
that once meant everything,
and now is another stranger
on crowded city sidewalk.

I no longer yearn to find you
in some corner of the world,
with arms that have again learned  
how to hold me,
no, this is not a love letter.

I just want to think of you sometimes
and hold on to the parts of you
that already felt like they were mine.

Once again,
I try to remember your scent;
there is no use,
it’s already gone.

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

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

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.

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.

Let me once more wake in my
Grandparent's dusty home.
Baths in the sink, belly out,
cereal on the table.
Petting the big brown dog;
putting my fingers in his mouth
to feel the warmth of his tongue.
******* on lemons;
picking out their seeds
with my small hands.
No thoughts of loss,
no thoughts of war.

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.

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

I want to know.

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.

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.


.

I watch the daylight as it creeps across my wall,
it moves slowly, like a dying animal that
wants to live as badly as it has already wished to disappear.

I am bad impersonation of the person I was the day before;
like playing telephone with my body, or becoming a photocopy,
my true self has already begun wane.

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.

Wipe the crumbs from kitchen counter,
sweep the dust from the wooden floors.
do not mourn puddles
of spilled milk.

Look in the mirror, recognize
that there is light, and there is clarity.
See the small child still inside;
You have both loved the same people,
you have both longed for the same home,
how could you deny her?

Butter toast, flip the egg on the stove.
Thank yourself for not yet giving up
despite the hard days.

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

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.

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.

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.

Your dad handed me a box of Frosted Flakes
as he said, "they're great!" in a comically deep voice,
accompanied by the swing of a folded arm.

I laughed in that manner in which anyone laughs at dad jokes:
half heartedly, with a lazy smile.

The crunching of sugary flakes filled the room,
much like your morose mood.
I quietly ate a bowl of cereal,
and watched your face drown in a flood of regret.

I asked why you were so quiet
as you walked me to the guest room that night.
You said you had not spoken to your father in 4 years,
and had forgotten how he used to make you laugh.

You kissed my forehead
and headed towards your childhood bedroom.

You forgetting me, me forgetting you
such a quiet disease

it gets worse with time

soon you nor I will feel
the feeling of loss when you think about
kissing, touching or making love

If we're lucky we will live on in each other
in a form of nostalgia
Like the feeling you get when you remember
something that used to seem so simple or innocent in your childhood

but at worst we wont remember or pretend not to remember at all

We'll go on with our beautiful lives
Charming this world, one boy, one girl at a time.

God, it is so hard to believe we were once so perfect.
Life is hard and we just kind of get by
I guess it takes it's toll on us.

You’ll be 34 this year, you remember as you take a sip of wine,
the same wine you drank before it was legal to do so.

You struggle to decipher which parts are yours still,
and which parts belong to the girl who indulged
Before her time.

You tried to paint the moon tonight, on the good paper,
it doesn’t turn out. You attempt to capture it on your phone.
Despite how clear it was, it just escapes you.

There is dust collecting in the corners of your dining room floor.
You tell yourself that real women have clean baseboards.

They don’t attempt, and fail, to paint the moon when their children fall asleep.

You admit that you have not met the standards of your mother.
She never looks at you with disappointment,
she’s just scared the others would never understand your heart the way she does.

The record on the player needs to be flipped over,
That’s a compromise you’ve made,
for being able to indulge in the past a little longer,
once again.

It’s 2 am, a bookmark for sleep, that’s when adults
are allowed to go home.

You clean your brushes under cold water,
make sure to turn off all the lights.

Elliott reads aloud from some adventure book, I take over when his eyes are tired.
Luna is in the bath again, she’s a mermaid this week.
Jeremy works from home, his eyes dart back and forth, across computer screens.
If you weren’t watching the news, one could mistaken this merely as reverence for the mundane.
I turn off the news, and feel guilty for wanting to look away, I turn it back on again.
I did nothing to deserve the safety of my home, with the people I love.
I am reminded of the day the second Iraq war started,
we watched from our couch.
Black and white images of falling bombs flooding our screens,
our youngest brother weeping in my mother’s chest.
We all held him and assured him that it was happening somewhere far away,
that it was happening in someone else’s house, not our own.
I wanted to cry then, but I thought I was too old,
Sometimes I want to cry now, but I’m even older.
The neighbor’s dog howls all day long.
The kids run, laughing maniacally, from living-room,
to bedroom, and back again.
They are unencumbered by the chaos that remains unseen/unfelt in our home
I am grateful for that.

Time carves us all from the inside,
people recognize faces
but do not realize no one
is who they were the day before.
Every loss, every victory, chipping pieces off
like tiny stones quietly slipping over the edge.
Sometimes I want to wear my growth
Like a new dress.
Sometimes I want to share my scars
Like a name tag,
have you call me by my real name,
let the world love me without judgement.
No one escapes pain, so what’s the point in small talk.
We all share a bed with the shape of everything we’ve ever lost,
so I don’t want to talk about the weather.

Elliott is 10 today, a decade passed like the blink of an eye, yet I feel like I have loved him forever, time is funny like that. He’s closer to adult now than baby on my lap; a thought too achy to process. His toy box sits untouched most days, sometimes I’ll see him pick up an action figure he used to love, and there will be a slight spark in his eye, but it’s gone as fast as it comes. From his room, I can hear him laughing while watching cartoons. I cling to these fleeting moments of his childhood, imprint the sound of his wild boy laugh, commit it to memory, and understand that time only passes this fast when you love this hard. I am happy to love you so, my dear, let the years pass, fast as they may.

Grabbing on to the thin cigarette trees
we’d take the steep path down to the creek,
sat on that freckled stone while catching our breath,
we could hear trains in the distance,
you’d imitate them, the whistles, and hisses.
I’d throw my head back in laughter, and wait for an echo.
As a teen, you would imagine the trains arrived
to pick up the lucky, who found their way out.
I asked you if you ever considered
that maybe those trains brought the broken back home as well.
You didn’t understand then.
Today I imagine you, small suitcase, heavy heart,
on the train to inspect what is left of that beautiful, big, old house,
I see you mentally sorting through what remains;
Maybe the smooth rocks, plucked from the creek,
by a child who wanted nothing but to leave,
and today could not possibly come back home.
California is on fire.
the sky is blood orange,
the sky is Big Stick red,
the sky is end of the world blue.
The woman on the news informs me it’s fire season,
and we’ve yet to reach its peak.
I become increasingly annoyed
as she refers to herself as "on the frontlines"
while standing in the parking lot of a Wendy’s,
in heels, and a short dress,
knowing nothing of what you have lost.