It starts from the nose,
To oxygenate the brain.
The dilation of the lungs, hopeful, yet not at potential.

I am trying.

The exhale
Reminds me I have to start again soon.
Once again,
At the nose.

The simplest things are sometimes the hardest.

The birds harmonize with the rustle of leaves,
The rush of the current splashes the boulder.
Butterflies dance in the breeze,
The sun peeks through the trees to say hello.

I stand alone.
I am nothing without feeling empty.
It is when I am alone when I feel most accompanied by those around me.

Weird.

My neighbor rejoices, standing satisfied,
Like a spider after constructing its web.

The birds still harmonize,
The current still splashes,
The butterflies still dance,
The sun still says hello.

It goes on.

At least, it must.

***** blonde and a big smile.
Eyes of the Earth,
Heart of gold.

It’s been a while,
And I missed you.

You’re familiar.
Like the smell of the school stairwell,
Like the jargon of the Cup a Joe barista,
Like the twists and turns of Wade Avenue while bumper to bumper.

When you talk, I am transported to a sunny day,
One filled with libraries and coffee shops,
French songs and egg bites,
Long walks and evening talks.

We live our separate lives,
But rejoice in unison.
And I love you, more than libraries, more than smelly stairwells, more than you know.

Because I thought of you,
Without even thinking.

And I thought about what you would say,
Without even saying it.

You don’t need words.

And I thought about how you would help me,
Because God knows I needed it.

And if you were here, you would see me falling into a hole of despair.
You would see it straight through my smiling and my laughter.

You would help me like no other because you would sit down with me at the creaky, old table in that rustic coffee shop and ask me how I was doing and after I responded with the most generic and insincere response you wouldn’t give up you would keep going and you would eventually get to the bottom of it and you would start slow and realize that things like this take time and you would first start out by going to the counter and interacting with the barista who knew my name and you would order a blueberry muffin and also treat me to mango boba, hold the whip cream, and you would get yourself a scone and you would come back and we would eat it together and you would notice how that little bit of food made me feel better and how my mind was tricking my body and how I now started to talk to you without you forcing me to and how you really did get to the bottom of it and how I admire your persistence and genuine acts of kindness that keep my toes grounded on a day-to-day basis and

And, and, and—

And now I’m sulking in a puddle created by my own tears,
Because you’re not here.

And I’m thinking of you,
And I know you’re not.

Our footsteps dominated a small part of Pisgah National Forest in the Summer heat. Reading maps from local hiking stores, information tough as plastic Nalgene water bottles. Letting the snails make their way across the trail, watching spiders construct their webs in an articulate manner. Licking the dirt off your leg to compare to your natural skin tone, squashing ticks and eating ants. Conversations of back home, discussion who dates who, how one got in a car accident, and how one's football team lost in overtime during the Homecoming game, thus distracting from the pain presented by trekking up and down the trail. Peeling off wet socks at the end of the day to relieve pruney feet, taking care of blisters and bug bites which dominate the skin. Turning to your friend in the middle of the night in the tight, snuggly tent, deciding whether to wake them up to see the stars, and before a decision is made on your end, they get up and ask you the same thing. Time moves slower.

Having to drink the excess chicken juice during dinner as no waste would be produced. And being attacked by a hive of yellow jackets that woke up on the wrong side of the bed. The pain. Running three miles with a forty-pound pack on your back in the pouring rain as lightning is chasing you, just to arrive at your destination at a lower elevation right in time for the hail to invade. And the lightning. The feeling of the ground rumbling as you see the bolt strike a tree multiple yards away, the sound blasting off every cilia left in the ear.  And the strangers met on the trail; the only topic of the conversations were the bears and the weather.

I witnessed everything. I woke when the sun rose and I slept when the sun set. Everything moved slowly with the assured fateful speed of the stir-fry being consumed after a long day of milage, like the snail making its way across the trail, like the spiders constructing  their webs.

No one listens better

No one listens better
than the pen and the paper.

The swift glide of the pen;
it does not judge,
it does not care,
it does not reject.

The paper is a busy mind,
reflecting the thoughts courageously slammed on paper.

The love,
the hate,
the in-between.

I’m sorry I have trouble talking to you,
you are not the pen nor the paper.

I missed you

I flipped a coin and hopped in the car.
The steady flow of the interstate spit me out,
About 15 minutes from your house.

But I made it in 10.

A left at the light,
Straight past the tiny, green house,
Nestled at the end of the pavement.

Familiarity surrounded as I jostled through the driveway;
The pothole to the left never escaped my memory.
My engine felt too loud against the soft cries of the owls.

You kept the lights on.

One, two, three playful knocks against the bright red door.
The pitter-patter of your footsteps sent electricity throughout my body;
The creak of the door created a euphoric harmony.

I missed you.