.I remember the way you looked
.You looked to me with blushing eyes and extended smiles
-And I remember when you took my hand.
.You held it in your own as we stood on linoleum tiles

-I remember the way you felt-
.Like a refreshing cool wind on a hot summer's day
And I remember how you surrounded me with love
.But like the wind, was so quick to blow away

I remember how you left-
Sort of short and in a rush.
And I remember how you lied to me so much.
You kept your sadness quiet like a hush.

That kind of day where I can
stare at a blank wall for 30 minutes,
and never not have a random useless thought.

I can sit in a chair, half asleep,
half awake and just pretend to be alive while
I exist in the confines of my brain. It's a blank
day. A day where nothing happens. A day
where I don't feel right, or even
human.

She told me it was endearing

The way I move my hands

Never mind that I was drunk

Again

Never mind that if hands could stutter

Mine were half loaded cannons

Threatening to hit anyone who got too close

So I showed her the sign for

“I love you”

And

“Beautiful”

And because it’s my favorite

“Dream”

With her back to my chest I told her a story with my hands and her body

She told me that she never realized hands could say so much

Forget that they feel like zippers sometimes

The way they clasp into love

Forget about the days

When fists were held in the air

You acted surprised when so many people looked like superman and solidarity

Forget that mine tremble with no sign of stopping

From the chemo

And the fear that anyone I love will someday leave me

When we hold hands you can feel it

And I’m always asked if I’m cold

I show her the sign for

“Butterfly”

And

“Stubborn”

And explain my second favorite sign is

“Believe”

Because you’re really telling people that you are married to your thoughts

I jokingly sign

“Marry”

And

“Heartache”

But I tell her it means that I am trying to keep my heart trapped in my body

Like it might try and escape

These hands

They will bake you a cake on your birthday

And they will rub your shoulders when you need to relax

They will squeeze you like they were trying to remember what you feel like

These hands

They can do so much

He was working the register at Save-a-Lot foods

The line slowly building towards the end of the store

I saw it

In the veins that stood out on the tip of his nose

In his white hair pushed back despite the receding hair line

In the sag of his lower lip

Making his jowls jiggle as he turned his head

I saw how his lower lip longed for the chewing tobacco it used to hold

I stood in line holding a cart full of lonely

And I wanted to tell him

“You look like the kind of man who’s only ever made daughters

And your hands

Are too calloused

for taking money

and bagging groceries

I know you

How the top of your gut is tight from the hunger

Of not having eaten yet

You were never meant for this

Man

You were never meant to work like this

Humbled by the heartache caused by a dime

We got the same change clangin’ in our pockets

Got the same sorrow

For not having made enough people happy

I know the minute the beer is full someone will take more

And the minute you sit down

And rub your calloused fingertips across your eyes

The phone will ring

Man

I know it wasn’t your fault

When the lady got mad that the prices were wrong

The prices are always wrong

I know

You’ve been here too long

We both

have been here too long

When my hair is grey

Today’s change will still ring off the countertops

And I'm sorry

For everything”

But I didn’t say any of that

I said

Hi

I did not use his name

Because I know how condescending it really sounds to do that

It was Patrick by the way

I gave him a twenty

He gave me a penny

It clanged in my pocket like the last bell on a broken wind chime

And then I said

Thanks Man

And left

He is just tall enough to make me feel like a giant by the way he cranes his neck to look at me

His hands are too small for the camera he is holding

No one notices as he takes pictures of them

While they look at pictures on the walls

I ask him if I am on his camera

And he asks me to sit so he can show me

“Start at the beginning,” I say

There are no pictures of the actual work in any of his photographs

These are 14 megapixel close-ups

Of faces you thought you only made when you were alone

And I don’t want to see myself anymore

But I don’t stop him

These paintings might as well be mirrors

They might as well be

Crystal clear soul windows daring us to stare

a moment longer

The faces we make into them are response enough

To what we see inside

I already know what I see inside

It’s like listening to your own voice on a tape recorder

You can hear how ugly your voice is

Even though

everyone else tells you

“You sound like yourself”

Looking at these pictures is like walking in on your parents having ***

I know I am not supposed to be here

And after about 30 pictures we get to mine

These are 14 megapixels worth of tears drying on my cheeks

Suddenly I wish this museum was on fire

And the beams above us would come crashing down and bury us

I wonder why a little boy felt the need to photograph my soul

And I hate him for it

I hate his smile

And his eyes that have not yet seen enough

And his heart

Beating like a hesitant breeze

Warning us of winter

He must see all this on my face

Because he takes another picture

Then runs to his father almost tripping over the camera

Which hangs from a lanyard

Wrapped around his tiny wrist

I get up and leave

I avoid my own reflection in windows as I walk back to my car

I never again want to see what I feel like

And I will spend the rest of my life knowing

That somewhere

There is a little boy with a camera

That holds a picture of me

While I am crying

The foam floats in her glass lookin’ like a ***** snowflake

     Her fingerprints still in the frost


No matter what any sober person tells you

     No two lips are the same


No two dances on dimly lit dance floors

     The scuff marks scatter in so many directions


Even the music is a remix

     Of something that could have been perfect


Even if it’s the same bar over and over

     My memory the next morning is foggy


Even the warm spots on the other side of the bed

     Change shape like crop circles


If you ever stayed long enough

     To try my French toast


You’d see how the swirls look like galaxies

     And the thought of spinning might make you miss the flavor


But I know what perfect feels like

     Through so many filters


And every night now is a remix

     Of something that could have been perfect