we met in the summer
of the year of my life.
all of us adventurers,
entertainers…
we were fun.
these faces are
printed on my heart.

A cornucopia of colors
Bursts to life before my eyes
As everything green
Around me dies.
The smell filling the air
Surrounding me is
So sweet, so sentimental
And as I close my eyes
I am transported back
Through time.
I am a child once again
Running down this street,
Passed the haunted house
On the corner,
Innocence seeping from
Every pore
Leaving a trail to help
Guide me back.
The wind is blowing,
The leaves are changing,
And I wouldn't have it
Any other way.

I wonder what would happen
if they opened their
Eyes, so tightly closed
shut to the
World that we see-
to the colors and waves
Of beauty in the
corn that rises without
Fail each year when the warmth
comes back home.
Would it make any difference?
Could they even see it right?

I know what a skydiver feels like,
though I've never actually jumped from a plane
because with you I feel I'm skydiving.
Free falling, chutes failed
Crashing into your arms, into my world-
Yearning for the touch that grounds me
better than this planet ever has or could or will.
And in your eyes I see an ocean
One I plan to swim forever, trusting that
the water will be warm and the waves never too rough.
But it's in your soul that I find home,
in a space made just for me,
the one that waited, patiently waited-
Knowing only I would fit.

only a fool
would believe
the man preaching
from the pulpit
in a collar much
too high and stiff.

the words that
"death is like sleep."
what a lie to tell
oneself in such times...

sleep-
so fleeting, so restful, so warm.
death-
so permanent, so final, so cold.

death is not sleep.
no, of this i am sure.

i couldn't wake you.

you were not asleep
in that hard wooden box
that my shivering
knobby, young knees
knelt before so
long ago.

nor was he simply
resting in the room
with the french doors
closed that i did not
enter, where his
mustache lay
mistakenly shaven
on a frigid face

death is no sleep,
there is no
waking from
a dream.

I've started to feel like
these poems that I write
are becoming the footnotes
to my life.
I mean, think about it.
Every event, every emotion:
See bottom of page.
Because that's where the
truth is, where it always lies,
at the bottom,
forever at the bottom.
You have to dig until
your fingers are bleeding,
until your nails are broken.
But, I swear it'll be worth it.
Because I know that
these words that pour from
my brain through my arm
to this pen on this page
matter - I don't think
there's anything I've
been more sure of.
And so I'll dig,
until my fingers bleed
and my nails break
because this is it.
This is my one chance
to tell you the truth,
to tell me the truth
and I'm going to take it.

My brain has always been this way-
Like fertile soil, plant the seed
And it will grow.
Grow with all its might
As vines like tentacles
Weave and wrap their way
Through my very being.
I can feel the seed,
The one that you
Didn't think would grow-
Didn't think the season was right
Or the rain would fall
For the garden of my soul
To drink in. But it did-
The season was right
And I feel it growing.

When your hands grace
my face I feel alive,
an energy unexplainable
but I'll try my best.
Creeping through my bones,
flowing through my blood
I feel it- building and growing
but I know its worth.
I know it is fleeting,
for your hands will fall
and night will turn to day
and my car will pull out
of your driveway carrying
my body full of fading energy
as I ebb like waves,
fallen from grace.

You stand in front of me,
Same as I remember in my dreams.
Same hands and skin
And scars I could easily map out
In the dark.
But there's a change-
Undetectable to the untrained eye,
Invisible to everyone but me.
And I know this change,
This subtle difference that
Makes me cringe and buckle
Under the weight of the rushing
Flood of my memories,
This change- swift and deliberate
As the turn of a page-
Is all my fault.

John Lennon once said:
"How can I go forward when
I don't know which way
I'm facing?" And I, I never
know which way I'm facing.
You see my head is kind of
like an owl's, constantly
swiveling in circles taking
in as much as possible-
trying to find a way.
My pupils dilating huge
as they go, a feeling
I once knew well
when I placed tabs on my
tongue too often.
But, I'm not tripping now,
I'm just looking;
looking for any light source-
any star- anything
that can fill the darkness
I feel within.
I don't know which way
I'm facing and my feet,
those collections of bones
encased in flesh below me
meant to hold up all of this,
all of me, all of the worry
I've put in my pockets
weighing me down-
my feet, they don't know
whether to walk or run
or skip or hop
or spin me like a top on Christmas.
But spinning tops, they always
stop, falling down
and I guess if you think
about it that's finding their way-
laying down on the kitchen table.
But that's not for me,
face down at the dinner table.
No that's not my cup of tea,
or hot chocolate
because I don't drink tea or coffee
or anything with caffeine
for that matter because
it hurts my heart and if I
am ever going to have a
chance at finding which
way I face, which way to go
I need my heart in perfect
working condition.
I was once told there is an
eighteen inch path from your
brain to your heart
and that every communication
you have ever had,
every feeling you have ever
felt has travelled this path.
But, I don't know if my brain
is talking to my heart
or if my heart is telling
my brain or
if the two even know
eachother...
I still don't know which
way I'm facing, my feet
they don't know if they
should walk or run and
my head it swivels in
circles but I am always looking.
And I promise you,
when I find the way I'm
meant to face, I will go forward.
John Lennon once said:
"How can I go forward when
I don't know which way
I'm facing?"
I do not know which way I'm facing
but I know one day I will.

i can't stand good byes
those moments when the words
i am not ready to say,
never ready to say,
get caught in my throat
and choke the courage from my lungs.
eyes that sting with the
tears of longing
for one more moment to
simply sit and laugh
and be young like this
a little while more.
i hate good byes
the denying forever
as the minutes move faster
with the hands of the clock
to the time when
this car will pull out
of that driveway
and my hand waves its
last good bye
to you for a while.
i hate good byes
we need more hellos.

I'm in love with you
and I never expected this.
Never expected that, for
the first time, there would be
no miscommunication on
that 18 inch path from
my brain to my heart;
I saw no green light where
there should have been red.
Every sign points to you.
And now I am in-
fallen so deep that the
rest of the world seems far
away, lost in the confusion
of things that aren't as
clear as this: my feelings for you.
So that's why, when your
eyes meet mine I know-
I'm in love with you.

your roughened fingers,
black with the work of a man,
twist and roll a cigarette.
your eyes flick
from it to me
and as you light it, you
inhale that long first drag.
i smile and wait my turn.

it begins again
the feeling so strong
it burned holes in your heart
and sliced scars in your skin
beaten and battered
by your own brain
you are no stranger
spiraling like spiders
it begins again

I think I could fall in love.
Fall like Alice down
the rabbit's hole-
spiraling in circles
until I crash into
some subterranean ground
of a world not like my own.
See, you can't step gracefully
into love, carrying your
ideals carefully in your hands
like precious wares.
You've got to fall
and trust gravity as it
pulls you down toward
your destination of love unknown.

Calendars don't lie
And so much time really
Has passed since that day
Three months in three years ago
When those three words
First left your lips aimed for mine.
Clocks don't laugh and say,
"Just kidding! It's really Four
Not Five." Though sometimes
I wish they would,
So I could laugh along
And think Oh good-
I have more time.
Out of my window in the
Fall the leaves change
Because they have to
And in Summers the
Flowers bloom because they must.
So the time it passes,
The leaves change and
The flowers bloom
As I remember the
Good bye with you.

i like to think
that all i am
is because
of all that you
have been.
that the color
of my eyes
is an intricate
mosaic of those
that have
seen before me.
the idea that
because your hands
and your feet
have explored
this earth
mine are so
lucky and proud
to do the same.
and i carry this
with me for
the day will come
when you
are gone and
i remain, when
those that
are to come
have came
and the only time
i see your eyes
is in pictures and
the mirror on
the wall.

If you were in my shoes
Your toes would be crunched
But at least then you could
Stand where I stand,
See what I see,
Feel how I feel.
You see I don't like my
Own view anymore-
What I see from these eyes,
Standing in these shoes,
Stuck in this spot.
If you were in my shoes,
Then I'd be in yours
My feet swimming
Where yours fit just right,
And I suppose this reminds me
Of playing in my dad's shoes
As a kid...
His made me feel big
Yours just make me feel small.
So how do you like my view?
How do you like me in your shoes,
Treading on your heart
As you tread on mine?
Don't try to run,
My shoes are stuck.

oh i could fall for you
and i definitely have
but this time
i, that little girl
with blonde curls erupting from
a small head with big dreams;
i, that girl
who grew and learned
and never took a single moment
or star
for granted;
i, that woman i have become
and am today
with a pride and strength
and a yearning to live,
i will not wait on the ground
for you outstretched hand.

There's something
You should know
But I'm not telling you
Most nights
This past week
I've gone to bed
In arms that are
Not yours
And it's making me
Happy
The operative word
Of my life right
Now is "should"
I should feel bad
For this
But I don't
I should tell you
The truth
But I'm not
I should speak
Instead of write
But it's all I know to do
I should stop
But I don't want to
I should
Yet here I am
Swimming in a
Sea of doubt
While you lay alone
In a bed of
Unanswered questions
Questions
I should answer
Because you should know
I know what I am doing
I know what I should do

They are angry.
They gather in masses
On streets, in parks,
On benches they wait.
They are angry.
They feel their mouths
Have been muzzled and
Their words are swept
Away like garbage on the curb.
They are growing.
More and more each day,
On screens and pages
Their dissent, our dissent
Grows louder.
We are angry.
Yet still the suit and tie
Turns its back and covers its ears
Trying with its might to shut us out.
But we are angry,
We are growing,
And we won't be silenced.

I watched you breathe
and it was wonderful.
Against the rising sun
there was no looking away.
As the city came to life
we ventured on and said goodbye.
But never will I forget
your body breathing by the sky.

It's been a year since
the water took you
or the sky took you
or you just went away.
I don't know which
but I know that you're gone.
I remember the first time we met.
I told you that your name sounded like it should be a character in
Harry Potter.
You knew just what I meant.
Little did I know in that moment
that you'd become
one of the greatest characters
I'd meet in my life.
See here's the thing:
I've always been scared of death.
Of how it takes
and never gives a single ****
for what it leaves behind,
for who it leaves behind.
And now after another winter's passed
I sometimes think of how
I never got to thank you,
Of how she never got to love you,
Not fully
and of how I can't seem
to look at a river the same
or how I don't think I ever will.
I don't know how to write
a eulogy, nor am I trying to
But I also don't know how to
say goodbye to that
laugh of laughs or a soul
that shone so bright.
So here's a poem, Rup-
A year late and a goodbye short.

You have worked ******* this,
The masterpiece of your life.
A beautiful mess of emotions
Strung together from heart to heart.

And there you are
Balancing with all your might,
Scuttling from one heart to another
Winding and weaving your way.

You are careful
But this life, your life, is not
And you slip
Cascading through heartstrings
You try to break your fall.

All your attempts are in vain
And as you desperately try
To grab hold
The claws you try to hide from the world
Snip
One by one
Snip
The  beautifully intertwined
Heartstrings of your life.

I heard a quote once that
Said something along the
Lines of you should always
Give someone a second chance
But never give them a third
And I gave you so many
So many second and third
And fourth and fifth chances
Because you really were
My best friend so now
When I sit and think about it,
Which I'm clearly doing now,
When I'm missing you
Because even though I
Don't like you, I really
Truly don't anymore,
I do miss you and the times
With you no one else
Could ever understand;
But when I really think about
The why and the how
And the chances
I just hope one day that
You can see this world
Is not out to get you,
That you are beautiful
But behind that there's
A girl so mean she
Sometimes scares love away.
You really were my best friend.

Shadows dance before
my eyes as sleep
eludes my tired brain.

Shadows of dreams
from the day transforming
into nighttime fantasies.

There's a moment when
I think I see your face...
But then the
Shadows engulf me-

And I drift away.

I search the shambles
of my brain
For a memory of
how it used to be.
Before neurons
and synapses were
synthetically
altered. Before
emotions knew such
peaks and valleys
only depicted in
the finest of art.
Some days my
small, open palms
come up empty...
gripping and grasping
at straws feebly
******* at long since
evaporated air.
But then there are those days,
the ones that begin
with a shine and
end with a glow,
On those days
I recall the
blissfully innocent
images of a girl
untainted, untouched.
Of a stone
unturned. Those days,
if you see my
eyes in passing
connection,
make note of the
lingering glitter
of a girl
who gave her all
To get her all
in return.

Simon says it's a sign.
So I ran,
ran fast and far
with the idea that
each occurence and encounter,
every moment-
even those dwarfed by
the giant of our memory-
will one day add up.

And Simon says he knows-
knows why and when and
what and how.
So I believe him
and in me grows a
soul that knows that one day
it will know.

Simon says,
just as he always
has and will-
so with a turned ear
and wide eyes,
I listen.

Slide along
Little blade,
And make me feel.
Better or worse,
I have no care in the world,
Just make me feel.

I turn my head away
And look back to find
You have made your mark
On this world
Called my body.

You are there,
Conspicuous in your red attire against my white
And you are proud
Of what you’ve accomplished.

You did your job,
And well might I add.
But, now I apologize
Your position has been filled
By happiness.

I thought I would find closure-
closure when your arms closed
around me one more time,
but I was wrong.
I didn't find peace in
the pacifying way your
lips met mine again.
And now, sitting alone
with no one and nothing
but my teeming brain for
company your words
echo in my head.
Bouncing back and forth,
up and down, I hear
nothing but your voice.
Your voice full of confessions
like I am hearing it
through a screen
dispensing Hail Marys
like I want answers.
So I try to make sense of it all.
How you can stop because you start-
start to feel, start to love-
and I get it, or at least
I trick myself that I do,
because I know now that
you remember how I smell,
that I am a part of your memory
as you are mine.
Now I'm forced to believe that's
all I'll get, so it must be enough.
I didn't find closure,
but then I realized I never needed to.

See I will remember you.
My brain, categorizing as it is
In its Obsessive Compulsive ways
Remembers everything-
Filed away to one day illicit
An emotion I know not of now.
I will remember your fingers skillfully tracing
My outline, your breath
Against mine as we lay
On the bed you made
Up with new sheets.
I will remember the new
Sheets and your excitement
For them as our sweat moistened
Their crisp newness on that
Balmy early summer evening.
I will forever remember purple:
The color of those sheets;
The color of anything favorite
And happy and nice and You.
But that was then and
Years from now, as I walk
Down the street in a town
That's not this one, my
Fingers interlocked in the
Hand of a man who is not you,
I will see a girl pass
Me by in a lovely purple dress
And I will remember. I will
Remember the night
When that girl was me
And that dress was mine
And that color was yours.
But, there's the rub, the
Sandy rub after a long, hot, sweaty
Perfect day at the beach,
The salt to the sweet of
This all- my brain will store
This, everything, store it away
And I will remember. I will
Remember the leaves that crept
Down your shoulder, permanently
Inked into your freckled skin.
I will remember the look and
The words and the touch.
But will you? Will you remember
The way I smell of
Sunflower and stale smoke
Coming in from the rain, blue
Eyes peaking up from
Rain specked spectacles
Gleaming in the dim light of
Your livingroom?
Because I will, I can't help it.

As my body ebbs and flows
With the beat, beat, beat
Of your bass
My eyes wander through
The crowd.
Smiling faces swallowed
By the sound.
We are wild and free
Flowers in the storm,
Clutching tight to
Our beautiful petals.
Shaken and stirred
By a world that does
Not understand.
We are unperturbed.
Pick us, pluck us,
Plant us where you may.
For one day you will see
The undeniable glory
That this beat and this life
Possess.
We are wildflowers
Swallowed by the sound.

I wonder what you wondered
as I slipped out of your
sheets and into my small
mess of clothes on the floor.
In the car, from your
house to mine- Alone.
Shudders creep through me
still from your touch
as my feeble brain,
weak in exhaustion from
the ways and wares of your
passion and power,
wonders what you wondered
as I slipped out of your sheets.

I marvel at the world
From a desk in an office in a town
Where I don’t belong.
This is the interim fragility
That I was never fond of.
The wanting for the thing you need
But simply can’t have yet.
Yet, the operative word of my life.

I know certainly with everything
That is inside this mind and this heart and this body
That I will do it.
I will live my way across these plains
Until I reach my destination,
Of which I’m not yet sure.

For a someone like you
to meet a someone like me,
the stars must have crossed.
Mustn't they have?

A someone so jaded,
so scarred
to meet a someone
so kind and so you.

The sum of my stars,
the lucky ones,
must mirror infinity
radiating beauty...
garnering all attention.

I have tried on many
occasions to capture that
which I cannot.
The things that time and
Earth and love
give and take right back
because their beauty is
too great.
Like the waves the heat makes
coming up off the pavement
in the sweltering summer that
I can see and feel
and swear I can hear-
but never touch.
Like the way my tears,
running salty and wet,
make long and full
my lashes as no makeup
ever could.
Like eyes shining
under street lights-
sparkling stained glass
to the soul.
And like my love for you.
These things we don't
get to keep.

There's a picture in the hope chest
or in a box buried beneath
a pile of unworn clothes at
the end of Mom's bed;
there's a picture somewhere
of me decked out in
purple floral footed pajamas
And in this picture, which must
have been taken one Christmas
night-
my hair slicked and wet and ponytailed,
in this picture I'm sitting
in front of a tree that
Dad chopped down.
a tree intricately and precisely decorated,
a tree with one strand of tinsel
on each and every branch,
a tree from the days we still used
the big bulbs of every color
that begged to burn your house down.
In this picture,
in front of that tree,
in floral footed purple pajamas-
I'm smiling.
This year there is no picture.
This year there was no Christmas.

“Dad is drunk.”

you say it again.

“Dad is drunk.”

D, what a harsh letter

for such a harsh sound.

“Dad is drunk.”

Words he cannot even 

say because 
he
is too drunk

and a liar.

“Dad is drunk.”

And every time 

you see that blue

or silver or red can,

every time you

see it you hear

its crunch in his

hand, his lips slurping

down the poison that

killed your family tree.

“Dad is drunk.”

Every time you say

those three words,

three words you

have heard far more

times in your

twenty-one years than

those other three words,

every time nothing changes.

“Dad is drunk.” Again.

What else is new?

I’ve been burned
by fires of men
who got carried away
throwing words and
sentiments around
like arrows,
piercing feelings
deep like flesh.
I have cried
rivers running
into waterfalls
creating black
mascara mudslides
rolling down
these full cheeks,
feeble attempts
to extinguish
the blaze. But
it won’t go out.
it smolders on,
embers glowing
dangerously bright
and beautiful
and too hot to touch.
and I am left with that:
a lingering reminder
too hot to touch,
too much to take.

I have a favor I must ask
of you, and only you:
I need your body back,
your flesh, your warmth.
Your arms wrapped around me,
holding me tight, pulling me in-
silently speaking the words
"you're mine,
I'm your's. We are safe."
because baby, I have
a confession to make
I wrote poems in your
skin that you don't know
I left there.
You see my dear,
I tucked my quiet rhymes
behind your ears for
times I knew you'd
need to hear my words
so soft and sweet,
My words: I love you
My words: I am here
My words: I am not going anywhere.
(Little did I know you would.)
                    •••
I hid similies and metaphors
in the nooks and crooks
of your elbows and knees
because poetry must be just as
good an oil as any for a
twenty-eight year old tin man right?
****, I don't know
but that's where they fit,
where they were meant to go.
                    •••
The first time our bodies connected,
our forces colliding just like
The Milky Way and Andromeda
will in four billion years-
my universe aligning with yours
as we lay in the grass
you and I both whispered:
"This is wrong."
For the first time on
that summer night I wrote
my words secretly into your skin.
My words: "How can something
wrong feel so right?"
                    •••
Baby, I'm looking for home and
I know you're looking for a heart
so here's mine-
written in words on your flesh
that you don't know are there.
Here's mine-
to fill your dark cavern
because no heart should be dark,
no heart a cavern.
Here's mine-
my throbbing, beating mess of a heart
filled with everyone I've ever loved
and there you are on top.
                    •••
Then came the days
without "I love you."
On those days,
with my fingertips frostbitten
and trying to text,
I wrote my words on scraps
of paper, turned them into airplanes,
and aimed in your direction
hoping that maybe,
just maybe,
their tips would pierce your skin
injecting the warmth I once received.
                    •••
To the man I used to love,
You can keep your body
and all the words I wrote in
places I wanted you to look
and hoped you wouldn't miss.

Weren't they heavy,
The feet that carried your
Young body across foreign
Desert soil that
Did not want you there?

Underneath all that weight -
The weight of all that
You were forced to carry,
Yours and theirs,
I imagine your footprints
Dragging in the sand,
Long since swept away
By the wind of
Many years.

But then I think,
They must still be heavy -
For it's been said
That what you swallow
Never goes away.
And though you
Deserted the desert,
It can never
Desert you.

I remember lasooing
the moon-
In a special way.
Like a story told so
many times the
details become
ingrained in you
like campfire smoke
to hair.
I feel the rough wood
of the fence beneath
my tenderly young
fingers-
grasping tight though
your hand never
left my back.
The moon, and the man
in it smiling down
on us, glistened
in the lake as
we swung and swung
our rope. And then
he was ours-
Pulling with all
our collective might,
Father and daughters
united in triumph
of what no one
thought they could do,
we tugged him in.
I remember this like I do
my name (Emily Elizabeth)
and my birthday (May 6, 1991)
and the way your
hands always smelled
coming in from the cold
(like home).
And it's this-
This memory so a
part of me- that
started it all.
With one hand on
my back and the
other pulling the
rope with our
tiny ones-
We caught the
Moon. I have
always known that-
With your hands
as guidance-
I can do anything
because I did that.

these hands of mine
with their
small,
skinny
fingers,
grip your sweating flesh
like it’s a lifeline.

push
pull
plunge
you & i

through the day
reminders of this,
sweetest of sins,
stop.
me.
in.
my tracks.

your teeth
have made a home
on my shoulders,
as have my nails
in your back.

i am tangled,
as never before,
in a web
of lust.

welcome back, freedom
you were missed.

When I see you,
It’s hard.

Hard to not remember
Everything.

I have seen and touched
Every inch of you,
Every millimeter.
I have enveloped you in these arms
When no one else knew
Just how much you needed it.
You have explored me,
Deep inside you know me.

Or knew me
Because no longer are you
My second half,
Nor I yours.
I know it will all be
Well and good
In time.
Angry words will pass in the wind,
Sad eyes will dry.
You will find love
And so will I.

And even though
I made this choice.
I needed this
And
I wanted this...

When I see you,
It’s hard.

I wrote this for you
Though you don’t know,
And in all actuality,
Most likely never will.
But I wrote this for you,
I did it any way.
No gratifying smile
Or embrace will come
At the end of this
Arduous connection
Of vowels and consonants.
But, I did it any way
And word after word
That you will never read
Creep their way from
Brain to page at
An astonishing rate.
I wrote this for you
With care and love,
I did it any way
So here you are:
Though you may never know
This is yours.