"It's like catching lightening, to find someone like you."*

i read that somewhere.

i don't know who they were talking about,

but i wouldn't want to catch lightening.

kind of sounds like it would hurt...

I like to get lost in words,
in the lush lines of prose,
the lingering liberation of free verse,
poetry.

Each letter a rosary bead,
possesses its own note,
as tobacco,
in a blue bottle of perfume,
nuanced, warm, stingy;
the code for describing,
lovers on an mid-autumn evening,
drinking black coffee.

But the anthology of words,
capturing my heart whole,
are the small, lace journals,
wrapped, in thumb worn, brown leather,
in the back of a little drawer, sound asleep,
hidden from the world.

Trace a finger along the spine,
open them to a maze
upon maze of letters-
paragraphs-thoughts-dreams-events;
my life, all swathed,
in thumb worn, brown leather.

I write them. leave them. read them
months, years later,
losing myself in, my own mid-autumn evenings,
and word worthy moments of my existence.
Why?
For I am able to say, “look how far I've come."

I never wrote until I knew
how still things were without my voice.


How many things weren’t being said.
How many things weren’t being seen.


I was silence in an unfilled space,
that light without which darkness sees.


I never missed you till I didn’t look,
and there you weren’t
setting silence free.

I love you;
Forevermore,
Never any less.

Words,
sharpened on the tongue,
hurled to wound,
to pierce,
to destroy.

Words,
dripping with venom,
flung to sting,
to burn,
to consume.

Words,
syllables weighted and heavy,
wielded to pummel,
to beat,
to crush.

Words,
spoken by you,
who gave me love,
hope,
happiness.

Words,
your weapon of choice,
better than hands,
than belts,
than feet.

Words,
wet with disgust,
ready to pour into,
swirl around,
drown me.

Your words.

It was a whisper in my day, seven quick
words against stark white to remind me who I am:

I am the words spilling from the point of
my Pilot XGrip, carefully ordered to represent
my wandering mind.

I am a mess, the pile of laundry huddled next
to an overflowing dresser, a muddled sea of
organized chaos.

I am movement caught in the stillness of a
photograph, the buzzing blood flow of
finding moments.

I am summer, a sticky shirt and 4 am with
your arms draping over my shoulders for
the second time.

I am flapping wings and shattered thoughts, a kiss,
and eyes one inch from mine yet I have no idea
what color I am.

I am you.
And even still I am him,
the you that came before you.

I am six months ago, the night I teetered on
the railing long enough for him to tell me how
pretty I looked.

I am the stairs he joined me on, the hide out from
the party he invited me to and I couldn’t quite
fit in with.

I am train seats
and crossword puzzles,
strange professors
and picnic tables.
I am orange cheese puffs
and little kids answering
grown up questions.

I am you,
the other you,
the better you,
the you that got away.

at night
the gray whispers
of smoke that
weave like ghosts
from the end of
your cigarette
reach my window
and freeze on
the glass like
a handprint
that presses gently
through
my dreams

f o r  n o w , j u s t
g i v e  m e   s  p  a  c  e
s o  I  c a n  b r e a t h e

d o n ' t  t i e  t h e  k n o t
i t  k i l l s  m e
s l o w l y

l e t  m e  t h i n k ,
d o n ' t   b o t h e r
p l e a s e  d o n ' t  b o t h e r

l o o s e n i n g  i s  m y  r e q u e s t .

I still find
pieces of

You

products in the bathroom
sweaters in the closet
writing on paper
and as much
as they are

You

they are not

You

rather tidbits of a life

You

once had
now abandon
eventually to be lost
or thrown away.
Now

You

in your new life
are  replacing them
with different
versions and variations
of the same
but not THE same
things.
But this is life
and is expected
and is exciting

for

You