It is February again.
It was February years ago that I hid.
I hid and I climbed out again in the spring.
We wrote songs. We shared songs.
You weren't a ghost then
and I didn't know at the time you would become one.
I tied my hair back to tune my guitar
and you said you liked how my neck looked exposed.
You are a ghost now, and it is February again.
But thank you for the songs I wrote when it was February then.
They are still favorites of mine.

I have dipped my feet in the Atlantic
In the Pacific
I have climbed every mountain
That time would allow
I have seen Berlin Wall remains
Walked through London markets
Danced with my kind
In Haight-Ashbury
Navigated New York Penn Station
In high heels
Felt closer to freedom in Oregon
Felt closer to God in Alaska
Felt closer to myself in Colorado
Felt closer to him in Honduras
Felt loneliness in New Jersey...

...And it took me months to realize
The earth is so spectacular
I am grateful, humbled
Yet no place is there I'd rather be
Than home

in a woven wooden walking distance
tucked between the world i originally dipped my toes in
i am welcomed back by the dancers that tower over the earth
(we call them mountains, sometimes)
i am five years aged since that tiny human first arrived here
they haven't forgotten me, though
it's as if i never roamed too far away
here i am

Do you remember how cold that winter was?
I did not own a winter coat that year.
I spent the snowy months
wrapped in Walden’s grey sweatshirt
that was three sizes too large.
The tall girl and I
would drive to the waterfalls
and chain smoke in my car.
We’d sit in silence,
the nuclei in our brains
eating the songs from Iceland.
The words were nonsensical
to our English ears.
We did not understand them.
But oh, God, did we feel.
We yearned with them and cried with them.
We felt their same lonesome
and wanted to tell them
that they were not alone.
That beautiful girl
would tell me I was her only true friend.
I’d light a cigarette for her
and tell her I’d never leave.
I wonder what the lady I’ve become
would say to the girl I was then.
”You left,” perhaps is what I’d say.
I wonder how she would respond.

Owning a young brain.
You march a chaotic, desultory life sometimes.
It won't happen to you.
A caregiver ages. She has wrinkles now.
You didn't notice, did you?
You see her too often to notice the changes.
It won't happen to you.
She has a disease, she tells you.
You didn't see that one coming, did you?
Your own life was at the forefront of your young brain.
It was distracting you this whole time.
But now. Now you are sick with the thought.
The unimaginable thought...

...but don't worry.
It won't happen to you.

He brushed my cheek one day
and said, “Let’s go to Alaska!”
We sailed to Alaska one summer
when the sun never slept.
But I slept close to him each night
in a tiny box on the ship.
The waves rocked and cradled
and my body moved with the waves
and with him.
We climbed a mountain
and found ourselves standing in a cloud.
“It’s alright. Just follow me."
We found shelter at the top.
We shared clean water and citrus
and he embraced me.
I never wanted to depart Alaska.
I had him to hold and know.
And I made peace with God.
His eyes looked different that day.
Determined and paler.
He knew more that day
than he had the day before.
Perhaps he had made peace with God, too.

I was writing a song in 3/4 time.
One, two, three. One, two, three...
And my mind couldn’t dance far from
the Biblical verses that were read to me earlier.
I sat on the wood floor of my bedroom
in my under garments alone.
I chain smoked and my head met the floor in anger.
Repetitive and purposeful self harm
for my mind couldn’t produce words
that truly depicted the flame on my brain.
I stepped outside for a walk in the moonlight.
The street was clear, but grey snow grew from the sidewalk.
I found Gabriel with the moon on his back,
standing on his rooftop, reciting Thoreau
and crying...
I looked up and watched,
the orchestra pit violinist watching the show from her chair.
I wanted to clap and weep with Gabriel,
but I dared not disrupt him.
He wiped his eyes and flung the moisture into the cold air.
I swear I could feel a drop fall on my head...
I watched puffs of warm air leaving his mouth
and his hair clung to his neck.
He cried softly. His shoulders quivered.
And in the moment, Gabriel,
the liturgist, the playwright, the angel,
had left.

The very first time I had ever had my coffee black
was because I was just being polite.
A man wanted to brew me coffee.
I sat at his table with the candle I gave him
and it was the only light in the room.
He brought me a cup, and told me
he had no cream or sugar.
What was I to do? He brewed it specifically for me.
I didn’t speak. I choked down the black sludge.
He talked of his travels and his photographs of sequoias.
We shared a cigarette
and he rubbed olive oil in my hands.
I grew tired and decided to depart
and I thanked him for his hospitality.
I have not put cream or sugar in my coffee since.

i have memories of you and i
i was still young, and you younger
you were taller in height with long legs
i had to look upward to look you in the eye
and still, i called you my little sister
we'd sit on your porch
you'd read me poems by leonard cohen, i think
i'd pull at the grass with my hands while i listened
and i'd show you music i wrote under a pseudonym
i miss you often, little sister
i hope you still read leonard cohen
and think of me

Half-lidded and weary under self-inflicted lines.
I only ever noticed these lines when you were thinking.
Deep in a painting of neutrons in your mind.
It was a painting I never held the brush for.
I was terrified of mis-spellings or untied shoes while I was near you.
I wanted so badly to touch you.
So, so badly. You were paper.
But glass and freedom was I.
I was free.
The android-dense streets of the city.
So silent. So singular.
We listened to Paul Simon on repeat.
We’d start in separate chairs across the room from each other,
then journey to the floor, and I’d sleep in your soul.
The album would end, and you’d quietly start it again
without disturbing my dreaming and shallow breathing.
I remember it well...
Those monsters were frightened away
when you’d cradle my face and rub my cheek.
I’d sleep to your heartbeat, a lullabye.
Fists banging on a cellar door.
Desperate fists. They wanted so badly to escape.
To be free. Freedom.
The vain streets of the city.
The ending of his album, and no longer repeated.

i try to keep my balance
my leg muscles are tensed to assist
and i sit in the center of the ship
the livid waves pulled by the moon rock me
it is difficult to sit upright without falling over
afraid to stand, i hope the movement ends soon
the ship is still at the center of the sea
and i still at the center of the ship
it is agonizing not knowing when the waves will end
but i will wait until the sea is calm again

To lie in bed together
to feel the slight tremors in the sheets on my side
that are coming from your laughter
I don't think I could love anything else
I don't think anything else matters

I'd never watched a human grow before
I held you before you developed your sea legs
as you saw the Blue Ridge Mountains
and I told you we'd revisit when you learned to walk
I will never forget the first day you said my name
Then one day you spoke a full sentence
You could run
You learned to count and sing
You no longer were that tiny cloud anymore
I feared you'd outgrow the little things
Until one night recently
You crawled into my lap
and slumbered so sweetly
and I realized you were not growing too quickly
You still were such a little boy
for a little while longer

I hid behind long locks of dark hair back then.
And sang of places I would not visit for another three to five years.
Some places had real names but were fiction in my brain.
I gave myself an alias among others' real names.
Why was I so secretive?
"You are young," they'd tell me.
I didn't want to hear that.
The room was a relief from the Ohio cold in mid-January,
that was always when the air was the most brutal.
The community we built was short-lived but lovely
it was where I tucked myself away for the winter
before climbing out on my two hands
and not ever thinking to look back.

what silly little girls we were
we put holes in our faces
and prisms in our hair strands
we followed boys with guitars on rocks near the river
we had guitars, too, and we knew we were good
we wanted to show them we were good
you could sing better than me
but i was the writer
that's why we were moon sisters
we were bound to find each other sooner or later
you had lively feet and i was the shy one
my eyes comfortably focused on the ground
but you'd tilt my chin upward
and i'd finally see all the beauty i'd been missing
i remember it well, when you took my hand
and whisked me away to the fantasy land of imsoniacs
they sipped coffee all night long in that oyster shell of a cave
you kept me awake till five am
then i'd tuck away into my warm bed to finally greet dreams
what silly little girls we were

sitting with a friend of a friend
desperate to yank at the seams of conversation
when it is quiet, we pretend to sip
we pull our eyes to the images of commentators on the screen
look out the window
think of something else to say so we can feel comfortable
my resume with people is malnourished
i am people, and i still don't understand them
the friend we share returns to the table
we invite her back
the ashes of discomfort are scattered
it is put to rest
a regulated heartbeat returns

Gabriel sits on a concrete stairwell
in Cobble Hill reading a newspaper.
He is an illusion to my illusionist mind.
I've painted a memory of him.
I haven't seen him since early July.
In my new state of mind,
in my new city, my new home
my new smells and people and steps to be taken
and shivers to be shaken from fear and excitement
I yearn for the familiarity of Gabriel.
I walk to Carroll Gardens wiping the visions of Gabriel
off my soul like crumbs from my shirt.
I will see him again, I am sure.
But how beautiful would it be to have a little piece of home
so far from home.

We have experienced this same departure five times over.
It should be routine, but my mind bends and aches each time.
I remember each hour, my clothing I wore.
I remember where rough patches were on your hands
as I held them to tell you goodbye.
I remember it well.
I remember exactly the shade of blue
that reflected in your eyes as you told me goodbye.
I sleep that night, each time when you depart,
feeling like something is missing.
You become a ghost limb.
It hits me again, even after five times.
And I miss you already.

I left the light on the porch
July to July.
Sitting on the front step waiting
for someone.
Green to gold to white.
I will continue to wait.
To run the tips of my fingers
through sand flecked hair.
I will continue.

I hear an orchestra when you laugh
and I enjoy admiring you most
when you are paying no mind.
You are intensely reading what is in your hand.
Your brow is pushed down to a ceiling
over your eyes.
This is when I find you most beautiful.
As a little girl I always had this vision of what love was.
I was horribly, horribly wrong.

I would never trade this adventure for anything.

I hope on your last day
you heard your favorite song
thought of something that brought you joy
remembered a time you laughed so hard
you cried
I hope you knew how much my father cared for you
(it was very, very much)
And I thank you for the friendship you provided him.