you are a blue button down, filled to the brim with smiling, sparkling, brown-eyed boy

she is a small blond girl in a gray sweater. you kissed the top of her head, and she leaned into your arms: smiling, safe, dancing

the man in the front of the room was giving a grand speech about dreams, about the hidden passions we fail to act upon;

i couldn’t stop staring at your hands.

it has been a while since my feet have graced the dance floor. i’m not sure if i remember the way the music sounds, but i know the steps: one-two-three, one-two-three, kiss, linger, leave. it’s muscle memory, it’s clockwork.

often, i think about the one who taught me how to dance. he twirled me around so quickly, it felt like floating, up into the sky, fingertips brushing the clouds. sometimes, i think i’m still dizzy.

you are a warm winter coat, all coziness and comfort and soft, slow smiles and sleepy voices on Sunday mornings

i am a small dark-haired girl who can’t quite figure out how all of her limbs fit together. i would dive off cliffs if it meant i could land in your arms.

you are the very best parts of all the things i should not want

the worst part is, i actually believe you could fix me.

Sometimes after I've
Had a drink or two,
Or a few more,
I convince myself that I can
Find what I want
In the superficial distractions,
Building my ego in faked conversations,
Pretending to be the careless girl
I've never really been able to be,
But pass me one more beer
So I can text every other
Y-chromosome in my phone
And pretend the meaningless
Exchange of dialogue
Even minimally replaces the gross
Urge I repress
To send you the stifled sonnets
That lay dormant at the pit of
My suppression.

Out of the noise of tired people working,
Harried with thoughts of war and lists of dead,
His beauty met me like a fresh wind blowing,
Clean boyish beauty and high-held head.

Eyes that told secrets, lips that would not tell them,
Fearless and shy the young unwearied eyes —
Men die by millions now, because God blunders,
Yet to have made this boy he must be wise.

come in multitudes
come in boots, pulled up, strapped
come with hairnets, bowlers, beers
come with husbands and mothers

the starlets come, the celebrities
the politicians and adversaries
bring your conflicts
bring your problems
stoners, bring your insights
bring philosophies and religions
bring visions, or lack thereof
bring weekdays and weeknights
bring the sofa
bring reality shows or documentaries
bring the series
and bring the cat

but come
with quirks and queers,
with stubbornness with anger
with broken glasses and fists
with fits of rage, with opinions
statements, facts, figures, conspiracies
bring every one of these, but come

with your broken hearts and talents
or genius, or with yesterday’s news
with the crosswords and comics
or the convicts or the cartoons  

- hell, we’ve got more than enough room

Welcome world:

The pen is yet to grow cold, in fact it grows warmer
and with each movement a somber expression
becomes my face. One does grow somber
when thinking about the human race.
We tried to trace it back, but I think even Darwin
would go blank if he tried to grasp what it has become.

I thought, once, that I might be a smart one.
But I find I grow dumb year after a year
turned a deaf ear to education and left it
to the next generation, thinking they need to
catch up. And I believed my bluff.

And now, unlike them, I need a pill to get it up,
need to huff and puff badder than any wolf,
its grown tough, and I feel I’m of the weaker stuff,
not fit enough to tact and plan,
not sure whether to play this hand, I stand in limbo,
amidst shouts of choose, choose, choose!

You’ll never win if you’re afraid to loose.