With hot like this, who needs a blanket?
lying awake in the heat,
crickets and voices sneak through my walls.
dog howls and train whistles peak and
sleep comes just
soon
enough

to wake

If you were an ice cream flavor,
you'd be the 2/3 of Neopolitan that doesn't include vanilla—
and I'm not just saying that because I love chocolate and you don't.
And if you were a city,
you'd be Corsica: you're Italian and, I don't know anything about Corsica but
It sounds nice
Sounds like gorgeous coastal sunsets (or is it sunrises?)
And if you were a street
you'd be 2250 West – the distant street I grew up on.
You're both familiar, short, and I could spend all day just watching you,
running up and down you,
laying up late at night, watching stars with you.
If you were ribbon,
I'd be your present; I'd tie your ankles behind my waist in the most beautiful bow
and on Christmas morning, you'd be the only gift I wanted to open.
I'd wake up early and try to peek without unwrapping you entirely.

The laundromat’s machines cycled restlessly like a clock’s second hand, although the first hand is more fitting because my time moved like hot traffic. That’s the problem with keeping your clothes white in a darkening city – you have to be mindful of what’s creeping into your streets. You can force the colors from your wardrobe easy enough, but not black in your heart. And the machines you kept set to delicates and lights tumble away from you, without you, with the rest of the world like permanent press.

I could tell you everything about the day Dad took me along to his mountain lake fishin’ spot. We didn’t talk much, not knowing what to say, but it didn’t matter then. We skipped rocks, sunned, & I basked in the company. Wading into the water, too surefooted, I slipped on a broken beer bottle. The day ended as jaggedly as the glass. Sliced my foot open from toe to heel. And our quiet relationship faded away like its scar.

It's funny.
the cold of the ocean spray seems
a soothing absolution
even after you've tried drowning
(nearly drowned)
washing ashore.
And lying there,
with fresh night sky above, eternal & steady,
even the salt seems sweet and the sand soft.
Each wet breath aches,
but you breathe anyway,
forcing down the good
you know fills the air.
And before you make your way
(back to the world,
your friends and family,
your responsibilities )
it is enough to lay
and count the stars
like blessings in your life.

And I've been told my heart beats quite loudly in my chest,
but I say it's just trying to talk to you.
The words fall easy when your ear is pressed,
listening for the murmur but, at this distance (and it feels so far)
it's fighting to be heard. I see no solution other than:
Come lay with me and let me whisper my
proclamations & palpitations
that have collected while you were away
as you fall asleep.