my fingers may feel like ice
when i return from winter
but don’t let that fool you into thinking
that i’m frozen.

no, dear
my skin is only cold
because the chill
couldn’t find a way
inside.
i love myself far too much
for that.

Somewhere
Along this rusty railing
sits a fairy who smokes cigarettes
and prays for all of the busy people
that walk by
with their eyes to the sidewalk,
who have given up on writing
their own songs.
She sees children in expensive suits,
asking stupid questions like,
"What is the thread count on this piece?"
She prays and laughs at herself,
but her days of crying are over.
People are like corks
flying off of champagne bottles.

in these times of chill
these times of blistering wind
i think it is important
to know how to keep warm.

you can reach for a hand
a body a furnace other than your own
and it may warm you
but for only as long as
it can sustain itself
after that, you’re both just ice.

and what if someone
reaches to you?
what will you say?
“i’m sorry i’m too cold
to warm anything at all”
how sad.

i begged myself for an answer
begged to know what to do
before the times of chill returned.
and, lovely and true as i am,
i responded:

put on your winter coat.
wrap your hands in fuzzy mittens
that make your insides feel fuzzy too.
double up on socks
and wrap your neck in a wool scarf.
you have everything you need
to feel warm when it gets cold
it was always with you.
you just have to dig around for a bit.

and so
in these times of chill,
i warm myself.

and my god,
do i recommend it.

trees hang down
over the cavern beneath my bed
and i know winter is near.

i breathe in the dust
that i am too tired to
brush from my weathered hands.

oh, yes, winter is near.
i just wish i knew
what that meant.

i imagine her
beautiful and weary
damaged in the ways
that allow her
to sink down into my soft places
and fill the puzzle-piece gap
someone else left her with.
i imagine her
lovely and flawed
striking a match in my chest
and starting a flame in my belly
a forest fire of disaster
and absolute perfection.
i imagine her
soft and destructive
disassembling me at her worst
caressing me at her best
i imagine her
lonely and strong
a being built from
i-don’t-give-a-damns
and let-me-help-yous
i imagine her
there
quiet and beaming
imagining what i might be like.
i imagine her
thinking i’m the beautiful mess
that i think her to be
i imagine us both being wrong.
i imagine that
being the best part
about it.

and i’d like for it to sound poetic.
poetic and sad
“the car smelled of
cigarette smoke
as we swerved
on an empty highway
waiting for the sun
to catch up”
nah.
neither of us smokes
and you didn’t swerve
and the highway wasn’t empty
and it was only
eleven p.m.
we weren’t running from the sun
i’d like to say
we were chasing it
but baby when
have we ever done something
so brave?
nah.
it would even be poetic
to admit that we’re cowards
but we aren’t those either
we’re just ****** people
you know?
that’s all we are
that’s all anyone is
driving on a highway at eleven p.m.
with other people
who are just people
and ****
if that isn’t the most poetic
and sad ****
that i’ve heard all day.
ha.
turns out the highway
was empty
after all.

do i love you?
oh, i’m not sure
please don’t ask
anymore.
my heart is weary
and my body needs to
rest.
gently now
take my hand
and hold me close.
do i love you?
oh, i’m not sure
but please stop asking
before i tell you
the truth
(oh, absolutely my dear.
absolutely)