You’re the reason for my favorite poem,
why I buy extra-strength whitening toothpaste,
the best part of Mondays.

You’re a showtune in the shower,
my pre-slumber what-if,
and also the best part of Tuesdays.

I worry that you notice
when my shoes smell bad
so I bought the expensive kind of Febreeze.

It was a good day to be alone,
she thought,
reacquainting myself with silence
and with the sophistication of books
from before I was born.

It was a good day to be alone,
because when I tried to be a grown-up
I burned breakfast
and just know that any witnesses
would never let me forget it.

It was a good day to be alone,
she admitted,
stretching out across the carpet,
cats perched beneath me
as I attempted a downward dog;
I can do yoga when I feel like it.

Home at last--on your avenue, on your deck--
we’ll watch morning patterns shift through shaky skies,
finding friendship in the silences.
We’ll spill stories across the kitchen table:
paint stains, soggy mittens, cigarette butts;
these are the things we’ll tell them about.
We’ll share sweaters and philosophy,
but not Chapstick because we don’t like germs.
Eventually you’ll see that navy blue is not black
and soon I’ll learn to waltz,
so save your tuxedo coat and fancy shoes,
because I’ll be Home soon.

He kept his paper
on a leash and tossed it
into the thick
atmosphere for the clouds
to compose stories
using helicopter pens
and drip-droplets of
ink. When they found
the right words, they tossed
it back with a gust of hearty
adjectives and unused pronouns;
but the cumulus fool
destroyed the boy and his
kite
by sending it into his
mother’s favorite
twisted willow.

Let me be
your pocket-bound good luck charm.
Brush my face with quaking palms
and hide me away for later;
I’ll be patiently waiting
between denim walls.

Whisper wishes when we’re alone
beneath the lull of the fan.
It’s okay
if you hold on too tightly
because all I want
is to be touched.

I will wait for you to find me
buried in the corner of an attic,
pasted on the sidewalk,
or in the ever-familiar rooms of your life—
until then
you’ll be in my peripherals.

Hello, little god,
cornered in this world of insignificance;
between sips of too-cold raspberry tea
create your own brand of madness
and label it "art."

From the blueberry stool
that is your throne, conduct
symphonies of beluga whales and
daisy chains molded together
to craft another colorful beginning.

Papercuts and calluses
are your battle wounds;
a diligent ballpoint pen
is the dog that marks its territory.

But then--

White knuckles
crumple mistakes,
transforming them into carpet-coating origami.
Your fingers keep the beat
that defines disincentive:
bmm, bmm, bmm.

Possessed
by antagonistic demons, tug
at the noose that is
a favorite paisley tie
and admit defeat.

Take another bite of your
overpriced Reuben sandwich.