my veins are one fire
please, dear god please
show me how to love you
touch my neck
fill me up
show me how to love you
i have never wanted someone
so fully and awfully and horribly
i am the tragic hero
of my own fabricated love story
my skin is covered with yours
and please, lord, please
show me how to love you

I guess this is my first.
It's really just a poem.
A few words
Arranged into a few lines
With a few spaces and dots and curly things that split our words into pieces...

Just my first.

No one really likes firsts, do they?
Not for school, at least,
Or for taking out the trash
Or forcing your legs to throw your body into the swelling body of water beneath you.
So, honestly,
I can't blame your for hating it.

Then again, you could love it.
After all, firsts are good for races.
They're also good for test scores.
And, if I'm remembering correctly, I know a set of twins that get into plenty of arguments about who should have come first.

So, yea, firsts can be good.

They're good for the presidents.
And the roosters.

Firsts are also pretty good for travelers.
I mean, if there were no firsts, how would travelers ever have anywhere new to go?

However, I don't really know how people feel about firsts in sickness.
Or death.
That could also be a bad one.

Well, anyway.
Here I am.
With a poem.
My first poem.
And, as we have found out here, firsts are very easy to love.
And they're very easy to hate.
And they're also very easy to ignore.

But I guess it doesn't really matter now, does it?
Because, what'll happen when my second comes along?

bracelet of leather
with beads of green, white, and red
stretched out perfectly

this is a new thing
isn't it

The leaves allow the sunlight to move in a way I never thought it could
The rays tap themselves against my glasses
But I'm not bothered
For I am fully aware of her motives
Harmless and sweet,
Simply thirsty to soak up a piece of the earth my body has made its friend

I let my body roll
And the sponges of light cover the green strands,
Strands compressed into the shape of my melancholy curves
Letting out a small sigh of exhaustion

And me and the sun sit side by side
And we watch the trees together
And we tell each other that its going to be alright
And that the loved ones will come home
And that the pie in the oven won't burn
And that, for the first time ever, we will be able to call ourselves beautiful

We tell each other lies
We lie until the sky begins to darken
I lie to the sun and she lies back
The two of us lie smiles onto each others faces
And, once she has reached home, leaving me with a "let us do this again"
I know that she is leaving me with another lie
And I am comforted
Because even the sun feels the weight of the world.
The only difference is she has the ability to remove it

And humans have to crack under it.

place your order
and wait

dial their number
and wait

take the test
and, again, wait

why do we choose to use up our minutes,
our precious seconds and moments,
waiting on others,
to make our lives easier

and finally finish waiting
just so we can wait
to wait
once more?

my hair is always a mess.

strand after strand falls to my eyes
blurring my vision
creating gaps in my reality
so i push them away

i need to focus

i.must. focus.

my hands graze the bookshelf
****. sorry. your bookshelf. our bookshelf.
all ten of my fingers
simultaneously feeling the surfaces
of each memory
and laugh
and kiss and argument and meal and dance and song
we ever shared

there were so many things
too many things

my mind starts to burn
because all i can see is you
strand after strand falls into my eyes
but its not my hair this time

strands of our lives
perfectly separated
once perfectly perpendicular
now perfectly parallel

and we all know
two parallel strands
headed in the same direction
will never meet
or cross
or even see each other again
despite their distance
or location
mine, being here
yours, being a concrete marker with four deep black words describing every fiber of your being

its not fair
that our lives came in wholes
in perfect, put together objects
and that time just increases the space between its atoms
creating strands and strings and broken things
ones that were once alls

and its not fair
that, when trying to turn our bits into something new
trying and failing and trying again
to make them fit against someone else's
that yours were taken
leaving me with strands untied
and spaces unfilled
and parts that just want to be wholes again.

my mind starts to cool.
stand up.
for a second time, i place my hand on the bookshelf. your shelf. our shelf.
and i let the strands fall.
i let them fill my eyes
and enter my ears
and wiggle around into my brain
because
if anything
every strand of yours i managed to keep

i insist should be mine as well.