February is tomorrow
Is October and is yesterday.
The winds start to chill and I can't find sleep.
So I'll walk down the dark streets to the corner
And wait for nothing and no one.

Silence greets the drifter as she steps lightly on the cement
Hoping to create a footprint deep enough to leave a mark.
But instead creating a slight wind that taps windows of sleeping scouts
Dreaming of leaving. Waking to nothing.

Sleep can't find the wicked and the wicked can't find sleep.
Insomnia strikes again and this time
It may stay.

I just wanted to tell you
I wrote everything for you.
So when I leave
You'll still have these words of mine.

Typewriters are more romantic than
Leather journals and black pens.
But there's something about my cursive that feels like
I'm just writing unsent letters with love from my wrist
To you.
And to me
That's the biggest piece of my soul I have to offer.

There is a city that prefers to be lit by stars
Sporting an abandoned gas station shelter.
Where a mattress finds a roof. A fence finds a fortress.
And in this city with no streetlights there is a house.
With three rooms, a kitchen, and a yard filled with sharp things.
There is also a roof. There is also a mattress. There is also a fence.
There is no one there.
But the cockroach that lives in the makeup drawer in the bathroom
With the mirror that's too high on the wall.

Maybe this whole book was given
For starting over.
The same chapter written twice.
Or three times.
Or four.
First in pencil for erasing,
But that weakened the page
And it became sensitive.
So in pen. Crossed out and scarred
Printed and indented into every line.
Infinite directions multiplied by infinite interpretations.
They met, but why?
They wrote, unanswered.
Once or twice. But sometimes called and answered.
Yearned for the alternate ending
Of which reality lacks.
This book is made for starting over and dwelling
In chapters already written
But lacking romantic perfection.

I'm writing with unsteady hands
Walking on frozen feet.
Rebellious phase. Changing myself.
Always with the realizations at 1:30 in the morning.
And when I write about waking up to your face it's because I can see it.
Just as it is like a lucid dream.
I smell coffee all over every fantastic moment of existence
Because I'm fairly certain my existence started with you.
You don't know how often I cry, or how loudly I think.
Or that I'm not really a writer. Just a distracted
Addict
To putting myself in characters.
Remembering what my life was, and what it has become.
I don't write I create.
I don't write I remember.
I don't write I dream.
And it's not about me, it's not about you,
It's about everything I've ever wanted it to be but
Was
Am
Too afraid to do
Be.
Become.
Idealism is everything I wasn't but am choosing to aspire to.
With my hair with my eyes with my ears.
I want you to see me the way I see me.
But that's unreliable.

A twin bed is big enough for two
Perhaps those two chairs are for me and for you.
Even your car says to leave you be and I will never understand how winter
Can harden your heart.
In this house glasses fog and furnaces roar with every passing moment but everything inside coolly whispers
Faster and softer with every heartbeat nervously pounding on my lungs
As my breath gets louder as my throat closes and my mind races
To images of Christmas lights and coffee, gloves and sweaters
Complaining about the cold knowing there's nothing we can do about it.
So we go home and watch a movie drinking hot chocolate from coffee mugs.
Waking up the next morning on a twin bed made for one.
I will never understand how silently you live your life.
A spark from a match can become a candle or a wildfire, one fades and one scars.
And you can drive your car anywhere you like but where will you go alone?
You can sleep every night but what will you do by yourself?
You have a voice you don't use but to sing your praises and excuse yourself but you have a beautiful mouth
That you can use to form the most beautiful words.
Like hello
And even goodbye
Men prefer loneliness from time to time and that's okay but not this winter.
Not this winter.