A czarina sits a-throne
Atop my desk.

Silent yet her scent
Screams sweetly.

Bursting sun, her skin
Little bruises and spots,

Perfectly imperfect.

Sap, dried, kisses skin,
Smooth, smoothie.

Water and ice, await you
While I,  await none.

this is an alphabet of all the people
who have dug holes in me,
and of all the people
who are still digging.

this is a gardening guide
for would-be lovers and pretty faces
who do not even realize
that they are carrying shovels.

this is a weather forecast written
from past experience,
a reminder that winter
is not kind on crops,
no matter how firmly you pack the dirt.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds planted.

this is me,
reflecting on seeds left to die.

A,
i suppose it is fitting that the first letter
is also the first person to show me what it is like
to have seedlings sprouting up from inside you,
the first person to show me just how deep you really have to dig
to make the sting last.
you never came back to water what you planted.

H,
i’d like to say to that i ripped out your roots with my own two hands;
i’d like to give myself some credit in all this.
you don’t look as lovely as you used to.
you say i’ve grown distant.
i’m sorry.

J,
you always feel like being on the verge of something big.
you feel like summer, like a deep purple,
a bath of darkness.
you are everywhere that plants do not grow well.
and i have always felt — and still do feel — 
that that is such a grave injustice.
still, though you cannot speak the word “devotion,”
i beckon for more seeds.

P,
my greatest heartbreak.
heartbreak, though, is but a flesh wound when seen from afar.
and so i thank god for the miles between us.
i can feign forgetfulness when you are far away.
after all, what is a shovel in your hands if those hands cannot reach me?

S,
you are but a bud waiting to bloom.
and yet again i find myself so very afraid of growth.

(a.m.)

I remember lying naked in each other’s arms;
smirking in jest that you’d best tread lightly—
one day, you may just get sick of my company.

Then, suddenly, one day came.

Now, I trace
those tread lines left behind
and yearn to be the traveler
instead of the traveled;

to be free of me too.

step one:
do not look at their mouth,
for you will expect to see rivers flowing from it,
poetry slipping through the space between their lips
in the same way that the wind slips through the space underneath a door,
but instead you will only see spit and saliva
and a tongue too big for its home.

step two:
do not look at their hands,
for you will expect them to craft cities from marble right before your very eyes,
but instead it will be just the thumbs,
the twiddling of thumbs,
the aimlessness, the senselessness,
the lack of experience with building empires.

step three:
do not look at their eyes,
for they say that the eyes are the windows to the soul,
and when you see that the curtains have been drawn,
you will feel so very alone.

step four:
i did not love you.
you have to repeat it.
i did not love you.
i did not love you.
i did not love you;
i loved what i thought you would be.
i thought you would be eden,
but you were only the apple.

step five:
i suppose i am to blame here
for digging holes too big to fill,
for crafting shoes too big to fit in.
and for that i am sorry.
i am sorry that i expected more from you
than i even expect from myself.

step six:
human.
human.
let the word roll off and around your tongue,
let it cover every inch of the inside of your mouth.
say it. over and over again.
say it. like it is foreign and you need to know what it means.
say it.
and when you have said it enough times and it feels
dull, old,
disappointing,
you will know that we are nothing more than flesh and bone,
and that as much as we wish there were gods among us,
flesh always rots in the end.
this is the beast of truth that we cannot outrun.
hands cannot craft cities from marble
if only given clay.

step seven:**
do not let this frighten you.
clay, after all,
was meant for molding.

(a.m.)

Time doesn't steal anything from you,
it changes you.
It lets you watch your grandmother,
a strong woman, sturdy,
a force to be reckoned with:
shrivel,
become small.
Her size reminding you
of when you'd lay beside her
as a child.
Her back to you, watching her massive shoulders move
like calm waves on a shore with each
breath.
The presence of that giant
chased the nightmares away.
And you realize that it was the only time that feeling small
felt so good,
and being big now
felt so terrible.

Time doesn't steal anything from you.
It conspires with your brain
to help you perfectly
remember
the time the boy you loved gazed down from above you,
the moment
before a kiss.
The moment that will always feel longer
than any other in your life.
But time obliterates any words that were said
from memory.
Obliterates any useful information,
any conversations.
Does not allow you to remember
each
and every day.

The momentum of time allows you infinite moments
to live in your past
today.
Like living in the moment
that you woke up on your 5th birthday
to your mom who spent
all morning
blowing up hundreds
of balloons.
Time let's you remember that feeling
of opening your eyes
to magic.
Remember feeling more loved
than you will ever feel.
Time gives you this moment,
but takes away
the day.

Time is indifferent as you plummet into the future.
Dragging behind you the images and words of
an optimistic kid
that you hope to keep alive.
Time is indifferent
as it demands you wake up,
and start over
again
and
again.