Missing you
to the sound of Sara Bareilles
streaming from the speakers of my car
that you sat in two days ago.

Feeling you
in the wind that plays with my hair,
aching for your touch
rather than wishing to be alone.

For the first time I miss you.
Not the aching I-need-you that I've felt before,
just the I-can-hear-you-on-the-wind,
the absence of your presence enunciated

By the trace of your airy fingertips in my hair
and the melody of your voice on the horizon
calling to me in the breeze,
singing to me in this song.

Your wispy presence brings me peace.
Your howling voice gives me rest,
and you're far right now,
but I can hear you in this car. In this song.
In the wind.
Waiting for me,
Just as you've always done.

I'm sitting on my bed
feeling the ghost of the soft skin of your wrist on my fingertips,
breathing in the memory of your soap smell,
your clean shirt
and your home house,
and I'm thinking
how did I get here?
How did I get you?

I see the lights
Blurry like cotton ***** on the inky water

The people on the bridge,
Bright like lightning bugs
Following each other like ants
Searching for food.

Are you out there, somewhere,
Searching for me?

She runs in choking,
holding in her tears, plugging
her eyes with her sleeve
so the waterfall won’t cascade down her cheeks
and ruin her makeup.

Is she alone?
She checks the stalls for feet-
a sigh of relief,
so she doesn’t have to pretend
to be washing her hands as her heart breaks.

She grabs at the sink,
supporting her weight as she
tries not to fall down.
A sturdy hand
to make her feel less alone.

Looking in the mirror-
Why? Why me? Why now?
She watches the tears spill down her
cheeks, red with emotion.
Fiery, like her mother’s eyes.

Letting out a sob- just one-
just to pacify
her aching heart, her
stinging skin. She stares at her
reflection-tired.

Imagining them all looking at her,
imagining him looking at her.
So tired of everyone looking at her.
She’s so tired.
Her face hardens with her heart-

A splash of water-
so much for the makeup-
a slap of the face,
a shaking breath as she leaves
the bathroom.

The smell of the woody fire drifting through the air
and the sharp tint of the grass
reverberate the crunchy leaves I am stepping on,
mixing with the memory of
your crisp shirt,
your soap smell,
your hair on my ear
and my hand on your arm
holding onto you like it’s the first time,
like this is the only time I’ll get to
because it very well may be.

my rose is crying.

the sound of the rain
fills the room as the mist
creeps in through my open window,
caressing the flower on my windowsill.
the drops
lick the petals as they fall
from the eyes of my pretty flower.
the pitter patter of the pollen
strikes the windowsill
as the flower sobs,
heaving its leaves against the window screen,
drowning the voices of the people underneath.
the cool breeze through the open window
blows more tears from the rose’s eyes-
i feel for my flower.
i care for my flower.
i am my flower,
crying out for you,
but my voice gets caught in the sound of the rain.

Look up.
Do you see the way the light streams
through the hole in the forest,
illuminating the single red leaf,
the tiny blade of grass
almost yellow with winter,
but kept in autumn by the orange giant
hovering above it?
Look up.
Do you see the way the sky’s blue
fades away like a petal left on my windowsill
into yellow on the outer edges
like a piece of old notebook paper?
Look up.
Do you see me staring at you,
longing for your gaze,
screaming for your eyes,
or does it only come out a whisper-
just a trace of autumn on the cool summer breeze?