occasionally i feel a
need to draw you,
to paint the veins in
your arms, to write
you into the margins
of other things i'm
working on. but i let
it sit, i let it stew just
on the edge of my
fingertips and pulsing
in the palm of my
hand until it is less
of an oncoming train
and more like a paper
plane on a playground.
i draw myself, i paint
myself, i write myself
into the margins instead.

they say you should
fear flowers for they
grow in adversity,
adapt, and face
the sun, and
when we
were little
we ****** on
the stems of gardenias
like honeybees with our
nimble, sticky fingers. And
today I learned to ride a bike
with no hands and a sweat
plastered shirt clinging to
my spine, so, instead,

shouldn't you be afraid of me?

let's go back, you   &    I
for a momentwhetherwe
are who we are or who
we were then, with your
scotch bones and my hair
in the wind like a hundred
p a g e s out of the bible,
you               &                 i
and the parts of you that
loved me then come out
to play, to feel my two
years on your two years
as thin as breath, thick as
all the words we left
unsaid, that fall like
spoons in empty cups
lost in the chatter of
apology after apology
in smiles dropping like
warheads, but our silence
overcomes the ancient fights,
strings and tangled veins
all my lies are in order
all the things I only
sort of
told
you


i have dreams about confessing.