In my head I saw
the potential life.
The one that included
not just you but I.
You would change
and come with me
and shift and grow
and adjust to being free.
We would explore and create.
I imagined us cooking dinner.
I never said it,
but I couldn't wait.
I liked the thought of us,
both foreign to this place.
Decorating the house,
and learning each others ways.
And these little ideas
they settled comfortably into my brain.
Nothing but snippets of an unspoken plan
that are now nothing but self inflicted pain.

I would color one side
Purple with blue x's
And black circles.
The other would be
Pink and yellow
With two red hearts.
My grandmother would chide,
You're ruining the picture.
Butterflies have mirror wings,
That's what makes them beautiful.
I could never make her see
That mine were the special ones.
And they were beautiful,
Because they were exceptions.

"We are sort of best friends I guess."
"Yeah, we totally are."
"Totally."
"This is all happening really fast."
"You're ******."
"No, I never am."

A brief summary of
every conversation
we ever stammered through.
Besides the awkward first
I love you's
and the last good byes of the evening.
No preference or preconceived ideas.
Always as honest as we were brave enough to be.
Tirelessly battling the quirks that piggyback
a friendship in fast forward.
A terminal one at that.

"Do you think I'm weird?"
"You are what you are."
And somehow there are a million
stories I want to tell.
******* Boonville,
and Demon Bri,
and getting dishes with Minnie Mouse.
How did all of this happen?
We never even had the time.

"I'm going to be alone here."
"You'll find someone."
"I want you."

They have had separate bedrooms
for the last ten years at least.
But I liked to imagine
that sometimes late at night
their drunken stupor would
leave their lonely minds wondering
and they would tiptoe into the darkened
bedroom of their reticent life partner,
and touch their skin. For the the first time in too long.
And they would lay with their faces together
and whisper, "What the hell are we doing?"
Three adult children, and still children themselves.
And they would laugh instead of scream.
And in the black of three AM
they could be honest with each other.
And every once in a great while
they could remember that they understand each other.

But I don't know that this ever happens.
Maybe they haven't been friends in years.

He said, I miss you,
and that was enough.
Enough to untangle
all that I had *******.
Three words from his mouth
with ridiculous intensity
Feverishly unearthing
everything I had worked to bury.
Come back to me.
My body stiffened against the plea.
After all my time begging.
It was you who was missing me.

I am the ninth born
of fourteen Campbells.
The dividing line for most
between the big kids
and the small.
I, the oldest little
led the gang of ***** boys.
Always antagonizing the elders,
until the war was waged.
My cousins they were towers and
being thrown onto their shoulders
was the equivalent of being
launched into outer space.
They could spin us by our ankles,
they could keep us at bay with one arm
and when all of us would gang on one.
That was a triumphant day.
But the battle wouldn't last long.
The adults were always busy.
So I'd head off with my warriors
and we would plan our next attack.
The entertainment of the day,
getting thrown across a room.

Its funny looking at this now,
I am care taker at a preschool.
I'll pick up a child upside down
only to be flocked by eight screaming
"me next me next!"
and I'll laugh as they outnumber me to the ground.

One minute you are climbing the tower.
The next you are that tower falling down.

There's a beautiful flower
at the end of my yard.
Purple or red
depending on the sun.
My flower is made of steel,
but it breaks like glass.
My flower is rusty
and covered in dirt.
She's bent in her middle,
My beautiful flower.
Her leaves brown and wilted.
She's just at the end of the yard.
I never walk to see her
for fear she'll run away.
My flower she is perfect.
She is filled with misunderstanding.
I never get to close
she doesn't want me near anyway.
My gorgeous flora,
she grew out of mud.
I never touch her.
Her dried up dying petals.
She doesn't need me.
My beautiful flower.