You crystal ballroom, all windows and walls, sewing light like seed over everything you touch.
Glass eyed stare, hands growing like they're getting away with something.
Everything you love is a trick of the light.
Everything it touches feels just like you.
Hiding heads under street-lamps like sin is some sort of choice we make, like growing is something to be done in silence.
They say that people in glasshouses shouldn't throw pebbles, but how can you expect to let people in if you can't even get out?

My grandmother looks straight though me, thoughts locked in, hands clamped around her bag of dead friends like holding them tight enough could bring them back. 
She tells me how full of life I am. I want to tell her how we all carry echoes around in our pockets but I don't think she'd understand.

And I just want to call you. Hand you everything I have like:
'Here's the dirt from under my nails. Call it apology. I hope it finally makes something grow'
'Here's that poem I never finished. Here's to hallelujah. Here's to all your leaving'
'Here's my storm cloud. Here's my salt spray.  Here's my window all dusted and bruised. I don't know how else to tell you that I have loved you in all four seasons'.

Everything you love will one day become sandstorm, cliff face, the blunt edge of a knife.
One day it won't be you holding the match.

Everything you love will turn back to dust
Everything you love will turn back to light

Indirectly saying "I love you" by giving you the cup with more coffee.

You're the reason I believe in ghosts
I try to convince myself that I'm going mad
when I see your pale face against the morning sunrise
when I see your brown hair
the flowers in it are still as vibrant as before
when I stand stagnant and look at myself in the mirror
seeing nothing about myself you could have loved
feeling my collarbone -- the last place you kissed
I touch it tenderly, as if I could break it
and I try endlessly to search for answers
that I almost get lost in thought
about your pink lips and brown eyes
But I remember your body
like the L-train map
I could never forget
the feel of your thigh
the curve of your spine
I remember the scent of your blood
You thought of your body as a haunted house
and there was nothing you could do to escape it
how your skin turned purple at the touch
and how I got drunk one night and cried
thanking every ounce of blood within you for continuing to run
even though you tried so desperately to stop it in its tracks
The first time we met
you swallowed me soul
and I never asked for it back
I tried for months
to drown myself in my own tears
but you still haunt my heart
I lie in bed and I can see your silhouette
outlined next to my fragile, shivering body
still craving your warmth
sometimes I hear your moans that haunted me
even when we were still together
I close my eyes and pretend that the
moon shining through my window
is your pale, glowing, glorious face

In my dreams
he comes to my rescue.
In my fantasies,
he climbs the Mt. Everest sized wall,
and fights off the guards
to discover
a part of me
so long ago buried,
so rarely a glimpse caught.
He would cherish
and protect,
the fragility
of my hidden self.
But my great wall is
IMPENETRABLE
IMPERMEABLE.
And he
would NEVER
try.

if I am the frying pan then you are the fire
in a way you’ve always been my gateway drug
[oh her]
and I’ve always been their gateway to you (we have never
really been that similar) if I am the street lights then
you are the stars (you have always made that one
pretty clear)
I am covered in your footprints
your hair kind of looks like mine
spit on my face and we’ll see if I start to look more like you
[oh it’s you]
we were born in hospitals and since then my infant skin
has felt like plastic in your hands
(I’ll sit down in the dirt to see if I can blend in
with what you say you really love) smile and maybe
I’ll remember
what I really love about the grass growing through the sidewalk
(I remember once you told me you would love me
if I could show you where the sidewalk ends)
if I am the bridge then you are the untamed river
I’m sorry if I couldn’t see below my feet but you never bothered
to look up either
you have always been my gunpowder and I
have always been your bastille (whether you are rogue or royalty
has yet to be determined) you have always said
that I was hollow and I held matches in my teeth hoping
it would prove me volatile
[always you two]
I used to think our bones were the same metal but you’d
be the first to tell me yours was forged in a hotter fire
I think
mine will be harder to break (and we will both be melting
for years) if I am holding their hands then
you are bleeding beneath their feet if I stand alone
then you are standing on their shoulders
(I remember you like charcoal on a cave wall
like a name carved in tree bark
there are sets of your fingerprints next to mine all down
the highway
hold my hand against the dirt and we’ll see
if the heat of battle in the blood red riverbank will be enough
to burn this skin from our bones) we are not friends and
we are never going to be strangers (and more than anything
I am sorry for that)
if I am midnight then you are three am
if I am the sun then you are (not the moon)
arcturus
in a way I’ve always been your gateway
in a way you’ve always been my coup de foudre
[oh this again]
in a way your poetry was always my first love