Somewhere, amongst the debris
of cigarettes after ***,
chemicals to induce sleep,
I forgot what it means to love.

I forgot what it means to breathe,
to sit still, and just be.

Somewhere, beneath these hooded seams
of solitude and well-versed grief,
beats a heart less cynical,
less tamed by vague distraction.

My nervous ticks and bad habits,
line of best fit for a near-hit
of satisfaction:

This is not enough, I know.
This is not nearly enough
to cool the bray of life
that still rattles meaning in my bones.

I forgot what it means to love,
what separates a house from a home.

Somewhere beyond this thirst
for brand-new words
is a gratitude for all that has been.
Every cliché holds a truth.

Every sentiment, a cocoon,
that I should lie so still inside

until I am wholesome,
until I am new.

Funny how easily
I can be pulled into its course,
and be flushed with the waves
all together.

It's just a single wave,
and I'm back in your shores once again.

Meet me when the first snow falls
when the blue and green lights shine in the sky,
spin me around and around on the ice
so that when I look up I see the galaxy above my head,
catch a snowflake drifting down from the sky
and make it feel warmth for the very first time,
sit with me in the softness of the snow
and tell the wind to wash away our sorrows tonight,
glide with me in the night towards the sky
towards the shimmering falling stars that die
just so that we can make our wishes,
and we can see our dreams flash before our eyes,
I will hold you tighter and breathlessly whisper,
for every white year, I hope that you...
meet me when the first snow falls.

I whirled muckle of
itineraries to reach Eden—
then I found your eyes.