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.

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.

A song that makes you feel nostalgic is playing in the grocery store
you pick through green apples, mushrooms, & cilantro,
absorbing sadness like a dry sponge in a soap bowl.

You wish to mourn, but not in front of strangers so
you carry this knot in your throat, like grocery bags, all the way home.

You've been so quiet for days and after a drink you feel like spilling,
You tell your brother that the moon smells like gunpowder and
about that thing you did in middle school that still makes you cringe.

your last cigarette has reached the filter.
You panic, you feel this is the only way anyone will listen.

There is a small town in Alaska being swallowed by the sea,
the article reads, “Villagers fight to save drowning city…”

You too fight a futile fight against the ocean;
You know the feeling of flailing toes in search of solid ground.

Whenever you get too scared you think about
hang drying, clean, white sheets in an open field.

You don't know why, but it always calms you.

You are still a good person when you wake up naked
next to a man you don't remember
you are still a good person when you have to find out his name
by digging through the mail sitting on his kitchen table.

You are a good person when you call your brother's girlfriend
that word that she often acts like.

You are a good person when you take free drinks from men at bars
without returning a favor.

You are still a good person when you choose to let go of your parent's religion.

Don't let the ghosts of guilt dance outside of your windows,
like flames,
they will engulf you.

Don't pray for forgiveness,
forgive yourself.

Don't be cocky,
don't get walked upon,
you are worth not more than them, but you are worth just as much.

Cool it a little on the ***, Cheech and Chong,
it makes you inarticulate
and your dad will find your stash one day,
and flush it  all down the toilet.

Say thank you more often and be more sincere.
People will not always be kind,
know that it is special when they are.

Stay in one spot, even after you **** everything up,
let it breath, you'll see it's not so bad.
Know that the ugly sits in all of us regardless if we
stay long enough to let anyone else see it or not.

When counting friends, count them on one hand,
bigger numbers will never mean "less alone."
Choose quality over quantity every time.

Let people finish their sentences,
don't pretend to know what they are going to say;
You do not now, and will never... know it all.

When the first boy you love treats you like something that is
disposable or easily replaced,
don't cheat on him.
LEAVE, GO, Don't look back!
Relationships are not jail sentences,
you don't owe them time.
Besides, his forgiveness
will never mean you can forgive yourself.

When that one other boyfriend introduces
you to his friends as his roomatte,
don't later follow him to bed.
Demand that he treats you like you would like
your future daughter to be treated.
Because you are somebody's daughter,
and your mother, she loves you a **** of a lot!

Don't be afraid to run home when your heart hurts.
Your mother's house will be clean and
it will smell like fresh coffee early in the mornings.
Drink your coffee by the kitchen window
watch the sunlight saturate the fruit trees.
let your mother kiss your forehead, then say goodbye.
Remember, there was a reason you left.

One last thing…
When that one terrible thing happens
that you don't often talk about
Don't blame yourself for hiding, and crying.
Don't shake in crowded rooms,
don't need ***** to talk to strangers.
Please, don't question why it didn't mess her up
like it messed you up.
You saw her scars that could be easily seen
but you will never see the ones she hides beneath her skin.

I bet you want to know if things get better
Um, I'm not sure they do.
Things do get different
and somehow,
when you get to that point, different will be enough for you.

We slept on your living room floor that sweltering Summer. Our overheated bodies attempted to absorb the small amount of, cool, humid air escaping the deafening swamp cooler.
No matter the night, your eyes always closed first. Accompanied by your slow breath, the feeling of loneliness would fall over the room like a dense fog.
Despite my proximity to you I could not fight the feeling of singularity. If you would have folded yourself into me, I would have still needed you closer.
On some nights I would walk to the large window that faced a busy intersection, and watch as the city performed a symphony.
The changing of lights, the passing of cars, the drunk laughter of strangers.
Somehow these strangers felt more like home, than you ever could;
with them I was able to imagine possibilities, with you, I knew this was as close as I was ever going to be.
We were actors, waiting for someone to claim the role of the villain. I'm sorry I made you play the part.
Yesterday I passed the bench in Union Station where you would wait for my train. I imagined you there amongst the chatter, and honking horns and there I was, 8 years later, alone (with you) in the fog, again.

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

I want to know.

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?

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.

The time I first saw Picasso's Blind Man;
there was a loneliness I was unaware
that color, alone, could produce.
Picasso lost his friend & his home,
& I understood why
he mourned for years, in Cobalt blue.

My Mother has kept my Father's last name
for longer than she's known her own.
My father has forgotten who he is so
they hardly speak anymore.
She still carries his torch even knowing
that he may never come home.

I climb the mountains to forget how much
I hate this city.
I watch them from below when I just
want to admire true beauty.
From the bottom, so sacred & somber,
they resemble an elephant sleeping,
surrounded by wild flowers
ready to return home.

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'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.

-
You recount in detail the three old ladies
outside of the diner,
how you listened in as they  
described the sky to one another.
One traced the swirls of the clouds
with trembling hands;
you thought it so beautiful,
you could have cried.
-
The record player is spinning the blues
through a gravelly veil.
I anticipate the moment
you lift your hand to your heart,
and exclaim:
"I love this next line!"
-
Sadness creeps in late through
your living room window
like the moon diving
into the ocean;
a wave of grief consumes you,
violent and unforgiving,
as you pour us another glass of
cheap white wine.
-
I feel like a thief in the night
when I think about you
on the train ride home,
as city blocks turn to fields,
and back to blocks again.
There is something blasphemous
about seeing you so clear.

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.

The sunflowers I bought you
sat backlit by the window.
Their long stems
reflected into our small kitchen;
Every fallen petal played out
like a slow, sorrowful production
on how beautiful things often die.

I remember that last week and how
we had mapped out routes to avoid each other.
Our bodies that once pointed towards
one another like home,
now recalculated every way to avoid contact.

When our eyes involuntarily did meet
I would quickly begin to count
the dry, mustard yellow
blades on our kitchen table
until you were gone.

Till this day, every time I think of you,
I think of petals, and begin to count
until I can no longer feel the
enormous weight of your absence.

People always look more beautiful when they
are departing by train or any other engined vehicle,

You watch them from a tiny window
and you mourn them as they slowly go away.

OH the BEAUTY, OH the TRAGEDY… oh puhlease!

Just try living with them for 5 years,
and having them *** on your toilet seat,

or hate all your friends or,

make fun of you when you're hungover and
rub all the embarrassing things you did in your face or,

hogging the TV to watch a Lakers game
when The New Girl is on and
everybody knows they are going to lose
then he's going to be all mopey all night.

Ugh, talk to me then!

Yeah, Jeremy, I'm talking to you.

I.
I’m standing in front of a stove starved  
for heat, shivering before a *** of boiling water,
my stiff fingers attempt to fold
themselves into my chest.
it's unusually cold in California this week,
I know you would be pleased.
I am focused on a gifted bouquet of orange roses
decorating my dining table;
only you would understand why
they make me so blue.

II.
I thought about you this Thanksgiving,
how your hands drew a line through the air
showcasing points of chaos, as you recounted
the turkey fire, and your grandfather's
drunken speech, 8 years ago this week.
I couldn't remember the punchline,
but we laughed so **** hard.

I figured that's why you were writing,
you too recalled a time I made you laugh,
but edited the sad parts out.

III.
You ask how I am.
I want to tell you I feel not like myself,
but I think it unfair to make you a reference point
of whom I think I should be.
So I'll say, I feel less
like the girl you would remember,
and more like a stranger
living in her body.

IV.
I had a dream three days in a row
where we were sitting on the shallow end
of an empty pool avoiding remnants
of algae water, settled in small ponds.
I was wearing a burgundy, babydoll dress
that I used to wear when I was in eight.
I whispered something in slow motion,
you laughed, teeth grinning towards the sky,
like a child;
how bittersweet it was to remember the way
the lines find their place around your almond eyes.

I guess you will always be a place where
my subconscious goes to ache.

We stood at the foot of Elephant Mountain
looking at scattered pieces of metal
illuminated by the blinding sun,
they stood out in the green grassy hill
reminding us with every glimmer how much it really hurt.

A government official tried to convince you
that that was all that was left of the people you love.
He was a liar, we both know that.

You took a seat on the ground, on a bed of rocks and dirt.
It seemed so appropriate so I joined you;
In times like these there is no where to go but down.

I begged the god I often ignore
for direction for the first time in years,  
I searched my memory for every or any wise words I've ever
heard my mother or father speak.
Nothing, absolutely nothing came to mind that would actually matter.
I guess that nothing really matters when faced with death.

so there I sat on the ground
trying my best to hold you
as you tried your best to hold yourself together

I am so sorry, I am so sorry, I am so sorry.

He sneaks into my bed,
his tiny hands and feet are cold,
always.

He tangles himself in my limbs,
makes traps,
so he'll know if I try to leave his side.

I am swing set,
a slide set,
my head is a drum,
my hairs are guitar strings.
I never look put together like I used to;
there are tiny stains on all my shirts.

In my purse you will find lipstick,
a tube of jet black mascara...

and a tiny Hotwheels firetruck.

I remember how things used to be simple,
I remember how I used to move,
unencumbered,
alone.

I love him every day more
than the day prior.

I want to tell you how I am an empty house
with four dark corners that collect
fears like dust.

I want to tell you how I am an empty house,
So many things have been planted
but not one has sprout.

I want to trace the lines in
cracks of broken windows
and tell you how I formed webs of jagged glass

I want to tell you how I am an empty house;
a living and breathing
sign that somebody lives here,

yet nobody lives here.


I want to tell you how I am an empty house.

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.

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.

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.

Through some shiny contraption,
the pasta emerges smooth and flat.
Your arm around your new lover;
flour spread over a counter,
the both of you grinning.
When you look at the picture you can't tell
if you're this version, or the other.
You are a puzzle pieced together by a child
who knows nothing about life.

In a dream you're at the creek
where we saw the bear last summer;
this time he speaks to us and sounds like my grandfather.
Laughter like shaking gravel, morphs into babbling water
careening over boulders.
There's a hole in the creek,
in the sky,
in you,
the breeze makes it sting, like salt on a wound.
You clench your teeth and look into the void.
It is the color of everything you loved and lost.
You want your hands to transform to wings,
but again, you are a child who knows nothing about life.

Last winter, wildflowers grew in the California desert,
they called it a Superbloom, it happens every decade.
Soft petals withered into their own bones before the next moon.
Time erodes canyons from mountains, through the earth,
through flesh, through veins, it's all the same.
Natural disaster doesn't always sound a siren,
sometimes things, silently get worn away.

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.

i.
you love ghost
like a train you just missed.

with a heart full of regret
and a small bit of hope.

as if you were to change one small thing,
they might return.

ii.
you have been gone for 6 years now,

and i am no longer sure
if you are everywhere,

or if i look for you in everything.

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.

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.

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.


.

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.

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.

Every single time I think of you
it is never directly of you.

It always is the red potatoes
sprinkled with rosemary.

It is lit cigarettes on fire escapes.

it is record players,
and scrabble matches.

It is the look on the cab driver's face
as I forced you in his cab
when you got too drunk
on the fourth of july.

It is the ride back home,
over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is Fireworks exploding
into chandeliers of light,
in the distance,
as you're passed out,
and I'm crying
because I miss my mother.

Every single time I think of you
it is never directly of you.

It always is the red potatoes
sprinkled with rosemary.

It is lit cigarettes on fire escapes.

it is record players,
and scrabble matches.

It is the look on the cab driver's face
as I forced you in his cab
when you got too drunk
on the fourth of july.

It is the ride back home,
over the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is Fireworks exploding
into chandeliers of light,
in the distance,
as you're passed out,
and I'm crying
because I miss my mother.

In hindsight, this too
was beautiful.

I.
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

II.
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

III.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

IV.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.

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.

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.

Almost nothing last forever,
prepare yourself without ruining present moment.
Love yourself a tiny bit more than you love them.

People flee but the feelings settle
in the space they left,
like dust on a bookshelf.

Don't be surprised when a breeze comes through
and you begin to count all the things
that could have made them laugh.
Doesn't mean you need them,
just means you did love them once.
But it's over,
it will never be the same,
how could it be?

Feeling alone in room full of people
is like a corpse on the shoulder,
it's like anchors at your chest.
I do this trick where I disappear
just long enough that when I return
no one will call me.

I don't want to be alone,
but I feel like vase that breaks,
and every time I try I am less whole,
and in a different shape.

I'm always scared that I am getting so **** old
when I still feel like I fit in my mother's lap.
With her hands through my hair,
I can finally sleep,

but I have the same weird dream where
I am 15 and I'm making out with Mikey
in the restroom of Russell's party.

He is lifting my shirt and I tell him if he stops
he can still tell his friends that I let him touch me.

Mikey smiles and leaves, and again
somebody else is telling my story.

Do you remember when we
danced beneath street lights
that bowed
in the presence
of our youth,
to that hum
from power lines
that can only be heard
early in the morning
or late at night?

Lately,
much like the power lines,
I hum
but only
when no one
is listening.

I keep these feelings
like water in cupped hands;
desperate to convey them
but they slip,
drop by drop,
through my fingers
and never completely
make it to you.

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.

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.

I got high by myself
and thought about my father.
I wonder whom or what he thinks about before
he does disappointing things.

I thought about how I’m scared to lose
my mother, If when she’s gone
I’ll remember what she smells like,
the sound of her laugh.

I called you over, hoping you’d accidentally
fall asleep on my couch.
I’ve been having those dreams about trains again,
and you know how much I hate thinking about being on time.

We watched news bloopers
and laughed until our bellies hurt.

I was surprised when you told me
that my presence made you feel calm;

my mind had been screaming for so long
that I forgot I had a presence to begin with.

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.

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

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 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.

The distance between us
is so wide that it can't
be scaled in inches, feet, days, or years;
it can only be measured in life times.

The version I knew of you,  
if I knew you at all,  
is only a shadow in my memory
left over from a previous life.

There are few things I can remember clearly
that have not been softened by time,
or cumbered by loneliness.

Those are:
One,
the small shape of your eyes
when sunlight broke, violent,
like a stone through windows
as particles danced
above us in slow motion.

Two,
the roughness of your rug
against our bodies
as we awoke
on your living room floor.

Three,
the way you offered me your long arms,
like ribbons, I wrapped them around myself,

and finally I felt like a gift.

All words
have been replayed
and rewritten so many times.
Like a photocopy of a photocopy
they have begun to wane.

Everything I have ever written
reads like a piece to the bridge
I am building to get back to you,
to remember who I was
when I was unscathed.

Everything I have ever written
is an ode to a past life,
an ode to reincarnation.
You have made a spiritual being
out of someone as cynical as me.

You would laugh, if you read the last sentence.

But there is no other way to explain
how I can feel such an anchor
for a practical stranger,
whose only familiar feature
that years have not taken
is a first and last name.

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.