i sat
drawing swirls
in condensation on the window

a younger me did the same thing once
and got yelled at
because
apparently the marks you
make on windows
don't go away

then someone has
to wash those panes,
and

heaven forbid
their windex leaves streaks

heaven forbid
their towel
sheds

heaven forbid
that clear glass
is marred

and

heaven forbid
someone put
swirls on the world
so something, anything
was a little

more

beautiful.

i have developed
a twitch.
neurotic tendencies.
obsessive,
compulsive
tendencies.

i brush my teeth,
my hair.
i pick,
leaving tiny,
almost unnoticeable
     speckle
                  spot
                                   scabs.

stupid that my
response
creates tangible
evidence of
       an invisible
                  experience -

            or maybe not -
maybe it's
appropriate,
maybe it's
     the point.

after all,
holding the smooth
hair
and sparkling
teeth
is a once loved
heart
scarred,
pocked,
and marred by defeat.

the telephone poles
are lying to me
their shadows tell stories
about the sun
leaving me wondering
at the endings
skirting around the lessons
and dodging my glances
spinning
spinning out of
sight in the dust blown up
by the wheels of your truck
that could use some air themselves
but you can't find a quarter
and there's nowhere to turn around
and the telephone poles
seem to get taller

the farther we go

woke up at six with a headache -
somehow it seems appropriate
i slept for three hours and
i dreamed about shrinking

i was eventually so small,
i was battling roaches with a
toothpick sword -
floating across puddle ponds
in a nutshell
i heard that there's a movie like that.
it doesn't have a happy ending.

i've never been
particularly good
at writing happy poetry.
i write at three in the morning -
if i were happy,
i would be sleeping.

and you ask me
why everything i write
is on tear stained pages,
filled with loaded statements,
references no one will understand -
it's because at three in the morning,
my brain is drenched in caffein
and leftover insomnia,
so i don't care
what anyone thinks -

especially you.

and there comes
a
point

where you just go

numb

when the coffee's all gone
and the dishes aren't done

i flee to dreams.

when the gas tank's on E
and i've lost my house keys

i flee to dreams

when the heat won't turn up
and i'm ready to drop

i flee to dreams

when the hot water's cold
and the milk is too old

i flee to dreams.

when my eyes blankly stare
i see you everywhere and

i flee to dreams -
and suddenly the coffee's in the pantry,
the dishes in the sink, the gauge needle has moved,
and the door's unlocked - it's not cold outside - the shower runs just right -
the milk sits in the fridge next to the eggs and the yogurt
in those little plastic containers with the bright colored aluminum lids
and my eyesight is clear - but i see you everywhere
because you are - you are everywhere


you are my dreams

i told you
the rain drops were
bouncy,
because they made a
very satisfying
plop
when they hit
the pavement in front of me.

each one made its own
small shower of
tiny droplets
fly into the air
around the spot the
raindrop hit,
so they were bouncy.

you softly said
i love you
with a little laugh
like im the only one
who compared the rain
to bouncy ***** -
like im the only one
who noticed that quirk
God created -
like God created
a quirk in those raindrops
so that i would
point it out to you,
in that moment,
right then,
and you would
say those words.

so that bouncy rain
was just for me
just for you
just for us.

so i think it's safe to say
that the bouncy kind,
is definitely the best.

it is two o clock in the morning
and you are shaking in my arms
taking those shuddery butterfly breaths
that only accompany sobs -
my frame trembles with yours
because you are so much
heavier,
stronger than i,
and i cannot hold you still,
so i hold you gently instead
and hope you do not miss the
steadiness that i'll never have.

and when the earthquakes are over
we breathe with your head in my lap
and my feet on the dash,
fogging the windows with
silent understanding,
or a lack thereof.
running my fingers through your hair
i raise my foot to the windshield,
and draw tiny circles around the moon
with my big toe -
somehow it seems melancholy,
that moon.
big,
silver,
and emanating a sadness that i
altogether comprehend for a moment
with my fingers in your hair
and my toe on the chilled glass pane -

and with that shared sadness
came the realization as to why
the moon stays so far from the earth -
the moon has watched from the sky
as countless loves ended
from the beginning of time,
and so she knows better than
to get too close to anything
that might make her fall.

i giggle at the thought
of how even the moon
knows better than i do.
but regardless
i'll just sit here,
toeing circles around that moon,
taking guesses at what you are dreaming.

pulling me towards
you seems to be something
you were made to do
-so close , comfortable-
you enveloppe me in
your everything, to remind me
that you're not pretend.

you cradle my head
to your chest with your
big, strong hands
-so warm , safe-
i breathe in the
thump of your heart
with closed eyes.

its beautiful,
how you hold me
like a baby bird,
-so carefully , gently-
though you're the only
one who doesn't mind how
delicate i really am.

the air is so still
that the dust peacefully floats
down from the broom you're shaking outside
the kitchen window.

it's caught by the
swirls of current created because
the broom disturbs the otherwise stagnant space
in the part of the sky that's down by our feet.

have you ever thought
about how all the air is the sky?
about how what we breathe is the same here as it is
miles and miles above us?

it's odd, to think about -
we consider the sky to be empty,
dotted with clouds that scatter the rays of the sun,
but it's the space that we walk in.
it's the space that we live in.
the space that we breathe.

in that space that we breathe
is you, and you're standing there, shaking
dust into the space that we breathe - the space we depend on
waving the collection of straw as though you're not
eliminating particles from it's body
but collecting them, from
that sky.

i think this while you
shake out the broom, and look at me
making this puzzled face as if you're going
to ask me something, but
you don't.

somehow yesterday's air seemed cleaner.
the sky seemed clearer and the grass greener
and the singing of crickets was like the chaos of an
untuned orchestra waiting to play, and there was dew
on the violins, and the cellist forgot his bow, but it was beautiful anyway.

so how has everything that seemed
so untouchable, so without blemish, so innocently complex,

become ruined, in a night?

how did the sky fill with clouds and the air fill with ash
that builds up in my lungs with no relief from the gasping -
grasping at straws -
but there's dust on my fingertips and i can't keep hold

there was once something beautiful in the things that one could not see
but hear and one could not touch but believe, only faith doesn't
seem to get you anywhere these days, now,
and that's all i have.

they can't take that from me, or at least that's what i hear,

but you can't believe what you hear - you can't even believe what you see
you have to have faith it isn't all just fake
which is ironic, because if faith didn't get us anywhere we wouldn't be able to believe
anything anymore

because this reality has clouded skies and
complicated lies disguised as
simple
misunderstandings, because everyone wants things
their way but let me tell you something,
the world isn't a burger king -
it's a giant glass sphere with dew covered
orchestras that just want to play you to sleep,
but you can't stop to listen because you can't even breathe.

you're under six feet of sand that rose up from the
ground to drown you in your own
smug sense of self righteousness,
when sin was just as close to the surface
as all that kindness you wore as a mask.

if you can dig yourself out
by all means, be my guest -
but if I had to take a guess you'll be there for a while.
let the image of that cloud filled sky and
that leaden feeling in your ash
filled lungs ruminate -
let it make up the half of yourself that you somehow
left on that clear skied day that seems to have been
an eternity ago.

the half of yourself that wanted to hear the
dew covered cricket orchestra and contemplate the silence of the star filled sky.
and if you ask really nicely, maybe the rain will erode
your sandy tomb and you won't have to dig
yourself out.
maybe you won't have to
plead with a million granules of self doubt.

but i wouldn't count on it.

so if i were you, i would start digging.

the shock hits first;
                  even before the betrayal.
          oncethatsinksin,

you would think anger would be next -
                  
                  but it's not.

                               it's disappointment.

disappointment is next,
                  because in addition to the


emptiness


that what you did
created,

i am disappointed that (yet again) i didn't
                  see it coming.

you would think that by now,
                  i'd be used to it,

                                  but how does one get used to
                                  thisfeelingofemptyinferiority?

i'll tell you.

you don't

                  you don't get used to it,
                                 youleave.


but i'm too
                 shocked and
                                 betrayed and
                                                  disappointed.

                                 andyoujustlaythereand

                *sleep

I've never met a smoker
who didn't tell me not to smoke,

they look at you, and take a drag,
saying, "back then I didn't know."

There's a part of me that wonders
what they really mean by that.

After all, a world with one less smoker
is a world with one more pack.

Like how a world with one less ******
is a world with one more hit,

And a world with one less pill head,
one more vicodin to give.

So I say "I bet."
with that sweet sour smoke
just spinning around my head,

thinking to myself,
inhale your selfish advice
with your pack of marlboro reds.

if you protected me from
everything,

*I
would
never
live.

Will you just let me cry with you?
I just need to let hot tears
wash away
what happened.
Just let me cry.

Let them soak into your
teeshirt and leave salt
stains on your skin -
just let me cry with you.

Don't make me give you a reason,
And don't ask how to "fix it"
just let me sit in your arms
and be the only thing that matters
for a minute.

Because I want to
matter enough to take one
of your minutes
and you not notice its absence.  

Maybe it's not normal
and maybe you won't ever
understand.

You would think that
if a woman was made from
a man,
he would be able to
see her fears
desires
and hopes
far better than
reality lets him.

But for now,
I need to cry.
And I need you to
sit quietly and let me.

I need you to listen
to me not saying a word,
because when you can
listen to my quiet
and hear what I'm
trying to say,

then I'll know that
I'm important enough
to take one, two, ten
of your minutes.

I'll realize
then smile softly
in my silence,
and you won't ever notice
the loss of those moments.  

But that's half the point anyway.

So just let me cry,
and mark you with
the lingering crystal
powder of dried tears,
because if I can
be my raw self with you,

then you can be mine.