so maybe we are not all we’re cracked up to be.
maybe we’ve less to be proud of than expected.
maybe they’ll think we’re less fire and all ashes.

so what. I care nothing for it.
the odds are inconsequential;
the fight will continue without regard.
remember this: I refuse to be the ashes.
we are burned but in no way broken.
and if we are not fire—
then we are flint.
tinder.
spark.
flame.

we work our way to becoming bonfire.

when it hits, there are no words.

the drive, the glow, the kind air
disappeared from my heart a long time ago,
it seems, and this is nothing but the last part of the breakdown,
not so much as an aftershock
than the very aftermath.
i cannot break down if i am long gone;
i cannot speak if i am empty—

and i am just empty,
a quietly sitting void, a patch of vapor.
the words do not come to me, and here i sit,
artless.
i think,
this is where the anger should be,
burning somewhere in the back of my mouth,
or, this is where the sadness should come,
turning my eyes to water,

but it doesn’t. it doesn’t.
and so there i sit, then,
empty.

we put so much stock in the big picture.
you know? we fall so far in love with the glory of promises,
with big words and exaggerated gestures,
with the scandals and the fights.

I do not need so much.
I can live for smaller sights.
the cup of tea you brew for me each morning.
the way you link our hands as we are walking.
your heart, thumping against mine.
how you’d pull my covers up again when I kick them off at night.
your clothes, in my home.
if you head out early, leave me a note.

I do not want for much. The smallest things can be enough.

in this,
when the sky and sun have left me,
when everything smothers me, leaves it harder to breathe,
when there is only tired eyes and heavy burdens,
when this poetry is something forbidden,

then i look
for the small things.
a glass of water. a breath of air.
the good music.
the dog’s footsteps, soft.
a working pen, a clearer mind.
how the clock takes her time.

so i shake my shoulders, gentle.
i’ve got this, i think.
i can. i can. i can.

it will be all right
at the end of this.
it will be better
in the morning sun.

you may say nothing,
but don't tell me it doesn't feel strange to you too.
doesn't it feel strange;
doesn't it feel harsh,
doesn't it ache
to know
we may not be here again?

doesn't it make your heart
pound out of your chest
to know
you will not see the skies from this one specific place again?
doesn't it weigh upon your shoulders
to fear
that we may not meet again?

doesn't it make you nauseous with the whole heaving hurt of it,
and the entirety of your relief.
don't you get torn
between good riddance
and i'll miss you,
between is this the taste of freedom,
the heady weightlessness in my chest,
and take me back; what i would give to do it over.

doesn't it make you go weak-kneed.
to think, we're almost there.
we've made it, and now
who even knows
where next to go.

and *******,
but it’s so strange, y'see,
me always trailing behind you
in some sort of half-awe, all-daze
watching you breathe and grin and do
me in always some kinda wonder,
at every **** thing that you are.

strange that you don’t seem to be bothered
let me come near
drift on the edges of your shine
(there must be an eclipse out of you and i,
just somewhere here)

and so there is me, always just somewhere there
unable to catch up
but also me thinking,
just being there would be enough.

i don’t know,
but there just aren’t any words for this, are there?

days later
and i still scramble for the right things to say,
as if any poetry could make this easier, more okay.
(it doesn’t work. i give up soon enough.)
(there is no poetry for this.)

i want to let time take my hand,
wash away the horror of what america has done;
i let angry music blare loud in my ears before i realize—

no. this is not something i can drown out.
this was not anything time would heal.
this was never something we could have just ignored, see?

you cannot let a sickness grow
call it healing while it festers.
you cannot watch a burning building
and think the fire will put itself out.
you must not leave a infected wound out and open
and just wait for the blood to stop on its own.

(it’s already infected. it hurts enough already.)
(it will scar.)

no. you have to act. you have to say:
this is not normal.
we cannot live with smoke around us,
with open wounds—
we cannot live if we are dying.

you cannot succumb. you cannot think of dying yet.
you have to say: i am alive. i will not die.
not while i am needed,
not while i can help.

take a breath. let the image sink before you.
stare at it, this open wound;
but then you must fight the sickness.