There was some expanse of time
when I could still count my age
on just two hands
so I wouldn’t have to speak when asked
When my mom still hugged me
in a fluffy towel
when I’d just got out from a bath
When lava lamps
were very popular

There were two in my science classroom
one in my best friend’s room
plenty on tv and in books and magazines
and one on my sister’s desk

I think I sort of wanted one
of my own
but didn’t want to ask
so I just always turned
my sister’s on
when she wasn’t around
watching it sideways and upside-down
and backwards and forwards and right-side-up
marveling at how
it always seemed
to look the same
and making sure
I turned it off
well before she came home
so she wouldn’t know

It was the same thing over and over
up and down
heat up and rise
cool down and sink
blub blub blub
repeat repeat
but it never got old
always in motion
so it always seemed different
despite the same old substance
being inside

I am glad I learned to understand
the intricate beauty of lava lamps
If I hadn’t
I might have had a harder time
tolerating the workings of my very mind
than I already did when I realized
it was all the same
all the same

The mind bubbles up
the same old goop
over and over
tricking us into thinking it’s new
by catching interest
in those moments of change
of transition from
too hot to sink to
too cold to rise
It’s the same old brain goop
the same old thoughts
the same old themes
the same memories and wishes
and dreams
It’s easy to feel trapped
when you’re floating in goo
and not watching from outside

But that never bothered me that
was the thing
Sitting at my sister’s desk
watching the same goop
never bored me
All that mattered was that
I was having a nice time
and the lava was pretty
and I knew my mom would be there
to hug me when I had my next bath

it's midnight here and time feels frozen
and i wonder if it really were
and i were to walk through borders and stop signs
past silent horns and stilled traffic lights

windshield wipers caught mid slash and
music stopped in every father's daughter's minivan and
desperate drivers with tired eyes
suspended in lives
that i will never understand
it's been three months since i last touched your hand
you are a thirty minute hourglass and i'm exhausted sand
you are a thirty minute hourglass and i'm exhausted sand
you are a thirty minute hourglass and i'm exhausted

"it's not too bad" that's just what you'll say
and your voicemail sounds so far away
well that's too bad
always scared that you're okay
it's not hard to say "i'll keep you safe"
when you've never had to save the day
it's not that i think that you're to blame
i just think the shots have changed

You’re so **** pretty
and I don’t just mean
your long eyelashes
or your majestic flowy hair
or the way your eyes go all crinkle
and your face goes all squish
when you smile,
nope.
You’re just
you’re so **** pretty
just as a human being
just in who you are
and how you try
and I just can’t think
of any solid reason why
you have to deal
with so much ****.

Bad things happen to good people,
sure,
and I’ve always known that the world
doesn’t always operate based on
common sense
but I guess
I never fully understood the full scope
of that concept
until I saw you cry.
Because when you walked up
(it’s no exaggeration to say)
you were glowing.
You literally
blinded everyone
but you kept insisting
that you could only absorb light,
not emit
and I just don’t get it.

My parents are doctors
so believe me
I know very well that the heart
is an ***** the size
of your fist,
no more and
no less.
I know it,
I do but you’re just
going to have to believe me
when I say
that there are times when I’m
talking to you
when my own personal
fist-sized *****
just swells right up
and expands
to push against
the sides
of its ribcage,
because if it’s true
it it’s really true
that the brightest star
in all the universe
might look in the mirror
and mistake itself
for a black hole,
then surely
surely no natural laws
no physical properties
no rules or
biological normalities apply
to the human heart?
Surely.

There aren’t many things I can say
with full confidence.
The future frightens me
the past confuses me
and I frankly am not sure why
I’m still here
in the present (???)
but like it or not
here I’ve been
for eighteen (better or worse) years
and in that time
there haven’t been many people
that it often bothers me
to be in a room without
(which would be totally irrelevant
if it weren’t for the fact that I walked
into Westminster Abbey today
and just wished
the mega-posh British security guard
was you)

Sometimes your sister turns 21
and you don’t post on her Facebook wall on her birthday
mostly because you’re a piece of garbage
but also because there simply aren’t enough words
in the english language to accurately describe to her
how great she is,
and even more so
because even if there were enough words,
you’re not entirely sure what
you’d want to say anyway
because you’re kind of shocked
and you don’t really know what to do
honestly
because oh shoot
you can remember exactly how she looked
before she got braces
and oh man
you see her smile
and find yourself looking through years
and years
of everything she’s been through
and finding the same exact smile as before
just with different teeth
and oh wow
you look at her hands
and see them as they were
when they held a book in front of your face
and taught you how to read
and oh gosh
you see her cry and get straight up confused
as to why such an
exceptional
being
should have to ever be sad
and uGH
you sometimes get a smell that reminds you
of a very specific time with her
and it makes you weirdly emotional
and oh no
where the heck did the time go and
aaaahhh
you just know that no one is going to make
a better adult
then her
and ohmanohmanohman you think about your life
and just realize
that you’d be absolutely nowhere without her
because you’re a tiny lil bean sprout
and she’s the whoooole big sun just
showin you the hEckiN wAY to evERytHiNg and
you think about how much of who you are has
come to be defined by
the things she’s taught you
and you look at her
and then at everyone else in the world
and you realize it’s time.
It's time for her to help them like she’s helped you.
And you realize she’s ready.
You realize she’s made it.
She’s there.

When this kind of thing happens,
here’s what you do kiddo alright listen up:
you write a stupid message for her
and you post it on her frikking Facebook wall okay
just do it okay
it doesn’t matter if it’s four days late,
it doesn’t matter if it’s 4 in the morning
it doesn’t matter if you still haven’t
placed the words just right do you hear me
your sister is 21 years old
and these are the best words you have
and she’s very much worth it so just post it okay
just do it.

hold your breath and pull it from your stomach
the dark is the safest place to touch my hand
so let's just watch that silver strand come up
silent and sure in its way
slipping past sharp lungs
drenched lungs, crystals floating on the surface
the salt from a father's sweat and a mother's tears
grown quickly thick from wordless fears
they thought we couldn't hear
"these are not children of the night"
they whispered, certain
but we're not children
we're stars that don't know how to implode
but we'd better find out because i know
the dark is the safest place to touch my hand
so if we keep on shining like the floorboards don't feel it
i won't know how to face us anymore

hold your breath and pull it from your stomach
through your mouth, out like a circus clown
glowing faint like the street lamps of your hometown
blood and ink and bathroom sinks don't matter
when they're knit in a scarf of impermanence
wrapped around some lopsided snowman
knocked off and away by the neighborhood dog
and soon forgotten
lost in a flurry of teacups and time
and floor-scattered tissues

hold your breath and pull it from your stomach
i'll wait to make sure you breathe again
and in the silence
we can play cat's cradle

i've been all over the world
you've been all over the country
but i think you're more worldly than me.
you asked me
of all the places i've been
where i'd like to go back to
and i thought of the answer
but could not speak so my eyes
spoke for me
spilling over salted memories
turned red with a thousand sunsets long past
and largely forgotten.
cried over
slept through
driven under
kiss strewn.
and you said speak
i'd thought it already
so it couldn't hurt me anymore.
your patience is much greater than you say
and your kindness is much less estranged than you wonder
because you waited until i looked up
tears on cheeks like rain on windows
a mark on my forehead from where it rested
against your wrinkled sweatshirt
mascara dust smudged across sticky lashes
bleeding as i whispered
(i want to go home)
(but you did go home) you said
(yes, i did) i agreed.
(and it wasn't a good time?)
(no it wasn't)
(but you want to go home?)
(yes i do. i had a home and now it's gone)
but you said you'd never had a home before
then you held up our hands and said
maybe this was home
you said
maybe we're living in houses
built out of each other.

stars are supposed to make people think about existence
about space
about time
about who we are
and why we are
and why we’re here
and where we go when it’s over

stars are supposed to make people think about stuff like that
you know
because a lot of people consistently forget what they’re here for
(heck
most people don’t even know what they’re here for at the start of it all)

me
i don’t need a reminder to think
i’ve got all the thought bases covered
covered well and good that's for sure

i need a reminder to take a rest
that’s what you are to me
and i guess that's what i've made of the stars

you’re both something that should be one thing
but end up being exactly the other
not the thing I’m told I should need
but what I actually need
something that’s real
something far away
distant
hard to understand
but there nonetheless
always there
you’re always there

and it’s not that you’ve always been “there”
not “there for me” no
no that’s not who you are
and not who i need you to be
maybe you’re meant to be that for others
(i guess i wouldn’t know)
but never to me

because you’re not here for me
you’re just here
you just come as you are

you hate being fake
so you live your life honestly
and i love you for that

i love you for that

i laid in bed
and listened to you breathe from miles away
quickly
deeply
deliberate
like breath from underwater through a straw
100 feet long

when my eyes fluttered closed
your breath blew through my head
and picked up powdered paint
i hadn't known
was lying around
and blew slow swirls of color through the sky
falling softly in your pause between exhale
and inhale
but being spun into motion once more
never getting to the ground
suspended by the idea of you
bright purples and blues
in improvised kaleidoscopes
that i wondered if you could see
from where you were

your mother told you
when she sent you away to learn the dance;
she said to always tell the truth.
her words may seem wise to another, but you know, don’t you?
you know from your short time,
it echoes in your head
brushes across your chest
whispers:
pretty words don’t hold up
in the dark.
because you have eye bags that would never pass airport security
(“it’s genetic”)
how will they fly you out to your dances?
your face is always blotchy. you don’t wear makeup and you sniffle a lot.
(“just allergies”)
no stage eyeliner for you.
tell me, ballerina boy
did you really stop dancing
because
your feet are sore?
or is it perhaps because
you’re ready
to retire your shoes
forever?
did you really sprain your foot?
or did you break your mind?
you, my love
are full of lies
because you and I both know
that the critics don’t matter.
but what of your faithful fans,
what will they say?
who will take your spot
in the dance,
who will take over the role
that was created with a sole purpose
of you playing it?
no one will, my love.
that role was yours alone.

You didn’t know what you were doing
and I think that was the worst part,
the fact that you just threw her heart
right away without even taking
the time
to break it first.

That’s it I guess–just that
you didn’t know and that
you didn’t break her heart
not because you loved her too much,
but because you didn’t want to feel the guilt
so instead you flattened out her breath and built
an airplane out of her lungs to fly
her heart to her
so she could break it herself,
alone in the dark
with a box full of tissues
a text to her mom
7 unanswered calls
and a silver hammer
for good measure.

You didn’t know,
you didn’t know what you’d done.
You thought maybe you both had won
because you both got sent your hearts
still intact
but you were wrong.
It doesn’t work like that.

Her lungs
were creased by your hands,
remember?
made sharp by your distinct ability
to see her vital oxygenation
as an art project,
just some ancient origami solution
to make pain look pretty.

Sharp lungs
biting breaths–
they pierced the heart
that sat on them;
it shattered the moment she lifted it
from their folded wings,
the ones that could still
feel your touch
on their edges.

You sent her her heart in the mail.
You didn’t break it you
didn’t even
break it.
Do you think that’s love?