She sighed and tossed the hair out of her eyes
He sipped loudly from a nearly dry Coke can
"This *****," she said. "I'm going home."
A jazzy song started to play over the outside speakers
A couple ambled past, walking their minituare schnauzer
"Ok." He said, shaking the Coke can irritably.

I feel like ten thousand thunderstorms
On mute
Just a series of verbs and vibrations
I wonder what my words really say
What they really mean
But the lightning show gets in the way
Makes you gasp and forget
The conversation we were having
And the last words
Unspoken
Are Nivana in a shot glass

They sat on a yellow couch,
That smelled strongly of moth *****,
And that had thick, dull brass buttons
In rows of eight and nine across the seating.
And the birthday party continued on
In the living room mostly,
But also in the kitchen and out on
The back porch.

The little yellow couch sat
In a small, awkward hallway
Between the dining room and kitchen,
And it took three minutes for any party goers
To interrupt them.

Her name was Alice then.
When she turned thirty-eight she changed it
To Alma.
His name was and is Robert.
He wore brown shorts that day.

Her hair was curled, for the occasion.
He asked her if she liked strawberry cake.
She said she didn't.
He laughed and said he'd eat her slice.
She said she wouldn't mind.
She reached out and held his hand.
He let her.
Until the girl walked through.
And they ooed and awwed at Alice and Robert.
And then they giggled themselves into the living room.
And Robert, almost twelve, looked at Alice
And thought, "She is beautiful".
And he said, "See you around," and walked into the kitchen.

And Alice thought,
"Maybe I will try strawberry cake."

I know your heart,
Only if it is like mine.
And if it is I know your hurt.
I know you hurt for others.
I know you hurt for things untouchable
But that can be felt by all.
You yearn for betterness.
Know of its existence by the dance inside your bones
And the song inside your soul.
And this world is a bad world
For the ones that feel
And think the way we do.
But it isn't time for hatred,
Because hatred has no room for goodness.
Remain vigilant not only in thought
But in action
Love is not the act of ignoring violence,
Bigotry, sexism, war
Love is the act of overcoming.
We shall overcome.

If I cut you from my life
Like an image from a family photograph
Your absence would still exist
But it would lose your features
Make you into empty space

As nameless and yet as true as the heart
Which beats wildly inside me
As I imagine a new, strange lover's eyes
Meeting mine for the first time

And how
as we share our first drinks,
He'll ask me about you
And I won't remember the words I once said
To describe you
Because how do you explain something
That isn't there

Love is a quiet whisper
In a small, cold tent
On the side of a vast forest
As the sun breaks over the tops of the trees
And spills itself in pools between
Open-armed branches.

Love is a joyous shout
From the top of a tall peak
At the edge of the eternal, hungry ocean
As the sun falls below the water's edge
And the sky is all purples and velvety blues
Slowly punctured by the gold-green light of
Summer stars.

Love is hands held in the backseat of the bus
Or against the hard, uncomforting metal and plastic of this worn hospital chair.
Love is whatever love chooses to be.
And as they salty, cold tears slide down my face,
Rough and excema-ridden in this weather,
I am glad that I still know
What love is.

Can't sleep so I
Check my Facebook,
See the little Capitol Building icon
In the news feed box
And I press it with my finger.

Nothing happens.
No loading bar,
No
Nothing.

And for a wild second I think,
"Even Facebook has given up on trying to
Make sense of American politics."

And then it loads.