You complain about the heat
I fan you until
I am sweating out every
ounce of my will
for you.
You complain that it's too cold.
I strip down
to bare skin and wrap
you until you are comfortable
and the smile on
my skin is a grayish-blue.
Your malcontent has drawn
me weary
My heart's marrow
drips out slowly
to feed you
and keep us alive
But what us
can there be
once it is all dried up
to nothing but bitter air?
I guess
I'll just have to wait
and see

As I put down my phone
turn off my television
take out my headphones
close my laptop
and look up
into the distance
at the trees bending
with the wind
the clouds smashing together
in a dance with passing planes
and wild birds
in one
massive
chaotic tapestry
I'm reminded
what really matters,
and it isn't me

I made four blueberry muffins for breakfast.
I wore a sweater three sizes too big,
and sat on a futon two sizes too small,
reading a book I've only halfway finished
in twice the amount of time it would take
to write it.
I drove without my windshield wipers on,
three-quarters hoping I wouldn't make it
a quarter of the way across town.
I tried to picture myself walking around
without pulling my past along
behind me.
I tried,
but that doesn't matter.
**** today.
I only thought about you
while they were in the oven.
I only pictured you waking up
and feeling okay
every time I turned the page.
I leaned over and looked through
the right side of my windshield
to see the view you once had.
And the scars on my palms
are reopened every day
as I drag around everything
I cannot let go.

Stomachs fill
and bottles empty
and pictures are burned
along with bridges.

To be a second choice is not good.
To now you are a second choice
and being happy that you are a choice at all
is not good.

I came to her with a heavy heart
and a poem
and I asked her if she could hold me up
and for a moment she did
but falling to the floor
I realized her heart was heavy enough for her.

She sought refuge by sleeping with sleepy men
and by drinking although she was already drunk.
And now that her bed is unoccupied
and her stomach pumped and her heart not so heavy,
she wishes to help hold me up.

But I have realized that I don't need her help.
I don't need the help of someone who
wishes only to help those who can help her.

I said I’d never write about you again,
but I suppose I’m just as good at lying
as I am at leaving.
I’ve forgotten what your voice sounds like.
I always criticized you for not letting go,
as if the weights around my ankles
weren’t made of my faults
and everything I wish I could take back.
You told me today that
you’ve found love again.
I hope he finds flowers growing
from all the cracks I created
in your heart.
I hope he sees galaxies
in the darkened voids
I left behind your eyes.
I hope he understands
that you are full of splintered doors
on rusted hinges
that need to be loved and not repaired.
I hope he is nothing like me.
I’m sorry my words left scars.
I’m sorry my silence
reopened them constantly.
I’m sorry I was too busy
loving myself,
instead of loving you.