I break my own heart with hope
that it mends stronger,
and that others reach out to help.

i cling to false independence,
and bitterly bite back blood and anger,
sadness and complacence.

i create a fortress in my mind,
constructed, brick by brick,
to shield me and complain
when no one finds their way inside.

i'm not sure what i hate more-- everyone else?
or me.

her words snap me back to reality,
away from supposition and hypotheticals,
into her arms where I feel safe.

blue eyes that pierce whatever darkness
i thought i had and lied to myself about,
eyes that see me for a who I am and who I want to be.

imagine walking down a darkened path,
content in the streetlights that guided
you home, and spotting something small
and kind. whatever it is you imagine,
it beckons you to hold it and when you do,
you smile, truly and impulsively.

that essence is a woman, and one i admire.
someone beatiful, kind, and funny,
including her incessant snoring on
already sleepless nights because a cat is begging for food but you feeling comfort
in their REM cycle. too little space
to be your own, but enough heart to bridge the gap.

imagine, then, that someone places
your hand on their lap when you drive,
but are equally willing to do the same,
in what feels like an equivalent exchange
of heart and sheer goofiness.

and tell yourself it doesn't feel right
that you were able to find home in them,
effortlessly and happily. you won't
and can't, and neither can i.

words can't express that she has been
friend, confidant, and a visual marvel,
and someone i envision as a pillar
of my bright existence.

imagine reaching deep into yourself,
past any sense of doubt or regret,
and reliving what made you -you-.

saturday mornings when your dad
cut grass and expected help he didn't ask for while bacon and eggs waited
in the kitchen,

or sundays where evening cartoons robbed you, so you wished
for extra sleep before sermons
and trips to CVS.

or holidays alone because jobs
are demanding, and it won't happen
again next year, where stillness forms into repression,
fueled by discomforts, angsts,
sadness.

and it isn't until much later
that the light of your own existence
takes root, petals up toward the sun,
and chooses to flourish.

in the stillness where critical thinking dies,
and your heart wins over, what silence
do you **** to make room for love?

is it the white noise of a nap
that leaves you groggy, pillow wettened
and intimately familiar with
your cheekbones?

is it the satisfaction of a fast food order
that exceeds your want for grease
with deliciousness and clean hands?

is it the feeling
of a project completed,
a pat on the back,
and the firm touch
of another capable human being?

i say it's everything
and nothing,
all that is below
and remains beneath
reach and understanding.

pervasive kindness is rare
yet attainable,
and i aim for it,
not just in pursuit of romance,
but to be happy and free.

I imagine sitting on a porch somewhere humid and calm,
a tall tree, full of hand fruits, providing shade to foot traffic.
In this imagining, the lemonade is almost too sweet but doesn't stick to the table when it dries, and the mesh lining of the patio denies mosquitos all entry.
Their buzzing is drowned by the sound of ice being crushed three or four times with margarita mix and my favorite sin. Here, life has halted so dearly in a way I've always wanted, and in this, there is peace.
My parents would have kept a container of peanuts nearby to have with their Pepsis for days like this--
days where sound and warmth and humidity mingle, and fanning yourself with an old church pamphlet was better than being
bored, comfortable, and air-conditioned.

i find it fun to imagine oblivions
and what they mean to different mes.
one hugged too often;
one much less, and bitter for it.
i find it fun to imagine that one thing,
one word, can have its meaning
abstracted beyond my control,
and spiral into an infinite number
of "what-ifs."

what's also fun is autumn
in its richness and volume,
skylines dyed shades of cinnamon, pear, and apple. supple warmth
and deep comfort.

both bring foreboding if you let them, so the answer is to never.