the gold lion cub flanked by his father,
soft chest for shelter and memory, like I thought
you might remember me

what is there, though
what ever was
I clench my heartstrings without trying when you pass
raise my voice so you can hear all the fun
I’m having without you because I miss you
I miss you I miss you but that’s just it

why

this cerebral museum I’ve kept of you, you
so brilliantly and always tear it up
remind me why I shrugged away your
irish spring forearm every time

why do fools fall in love and why does
non-love stick so stubbornly to the teeth
why are you still here
why were you ever
a forearm pushed away is all you were even
on the best days but

like you know my clenched heart aches to remember
you as you should have been
always the bull in the china shop,
always the beggar for a sad farewell,
you shred me

and then I mend, and forget
again, and again
just like I did when you were here
why are you still here

if I could just stay torn and the
rose-gold camera lens could take itself for what it is
allow a bit of real into my memory of you
your freckles
your venom and too-tight grip

I could grow a mane and lose the shadow of the lion's chest
rest my head on something better
feel the sweet African sun before extinction comes

years of words on paper, meticulously folded, filed,
un-forgotten, found and re-found
so often as to tear the edges, smudge the ink
un-escape back into, trapped on the ferris wheel of
spotless rosy memory, broken-record memory, memory,
memory,
memorize, become

words on paper
words on palms
words and touches and sharp intakes of breath etched
and etched
and etched and—

now, we use disposable cameras
look at what’s in front of us
we’re starting to
remember how

how many stories can we pour into our
summertime beer steins
how much before the foam spills over
into real-time

there’s no numerical answer to that, let’s state plainly
bubbles geometrically become one another, shrink
and multiply and turn amber-red in the august nightshade

and dogs skitter under basketball hoops, couples play in shadow
fathers sneeze and industry marches on
under our noses, outside our windows, between our ribs
how many stories can we swallow
before we’re drunk on the skyline and the view to the next

does it matter?

that one brew is for sale only in midtown
and sometime I might go back, drink it with you not there
watch the spinning hexagon floor tiles
and I’ll write you that I had it, and it was
all right

how many stories can we fit into the new year
stuff into the hamper, hide in creases of the couch
like quarters
like hands on knees, yours, yeah, the soft elegant spider-hands I
wanted on my knees since the first day—
two perfect hands

how many stories can we write on our palms
as reminders, how many can we fit between appointments

the ending’s not so important, is it—
bubbles join together, multiply, change shape
go hexagonal, spin
touch, remember, forget, divide
always even numbers

just shy of eleven
shy of prime

but amber-red in august
like that first time

i wish you could write feelings

i wish you could
keep them in bottles

and taste little bits
to remind yourself of
that feeling you had
one day last year
or last month
or yesterday afternoon.

Depression
Is like a swimming pool.
You dip your toe in
To get a feel.
You place your
Foot on the first step,
Ankles deep.
Your hand clutches the railing,
Preparing for the worst.
You descend to the
Second step,
Knees deep.
You breathe in
A long breath.
You climb to the
Third step,
Waist deep.
You're in too far.
You can't get out now.
You lay your arms in front of you,
Ready to dive right in.

Maybe I'll date him.
That guy who looks like
you.
Maybe when he laughs he'll get
those dimples just like
yours.
Maybe I'll get lucky and
he'll smell just like
you.

Maybe the way he will look at
me will be the same as
you.
Maybe even the cigarettes he smokes
will be the exact same as
yours.
Maybe I'll get lucky and
get to date another
you.

His eyes are different than yours though.
They're not brown like yours.
His hair doesn't fall just right like yours
either.

But maybe he'll be enough like you.
Maybe when I close my eyes I can pretend its you
again.
They'll all just be place holders for you anyway...
Maybe... I should just go to another Starbucks.

Eyes filling up with tears,
those mascara lines
Hands shaking,
just can't stop

Lungs gasping for air,
not getting enough
That moment of pure panic,
when you feel everything
shutting off

The moment when you're
frightened by your own reaction

That moment of pure breakdown