if they call them "heartstrings"
then

someone must have untied your end from mine
someone must have cut your end from mine
someone must have picked and picked until
the string frayed and split
someone must have unknotted every knot we tied to hold us together.

if they call them "heartstrings"
then

i need to be restrung
so my heart isn't hanging around
broken
for everyone to see.

they start at my toes,
wings barely spread as they migrate to the north -
winter sent them south but now the sun calls them back.
they flutter and flap up along the ridge of my ankle,
to the side of my calf. their feathers tickle the back of my knee,
their wing span stretching to my thigh,
dipping down along my hip as they soar past my waistline,
following the swirl of my navel, the mountain curves of my ribs
and the valleys between them. they glide up my breastbone
and double back along my collar, perching on my shoulder
to greet the sun's first rays.

then they descend,
black ink blurs down the pale stretch of my arm,
nesting in the crook of my elbow, while some -
younger and darker and daring and unafraid of the sky -
soar further on to my palms and off the tips of my fingers,
wings spread wide for the first time.

they say that anyone can make it here;
you just need some will and some way and
all of it can be all you ever dreamed.

they don't tell you that the waitress -
the one who fills your coffee mug to the brim
and smiles at your meager two-dollar tip -
can play Beethoven's 9th better than Ludwig himself;
or that the homeless man on the corner
wrapped in yesterday's newspapers
begging for the change you don't have
just wanted to be a star once upon a time.

they don't tell you about the failures,
the missed chances,
the "better-luck-next-time-kid".

they tell you about that one-in-a-million,
that lucky strike.

they say that anyone can make it here
but they don't mean you.

When you think my pen has run out of ink,
Or the tip of my pencil has worn down to dull,
Or my notebook is full of ramblings and starts,
And I’ve lost all your pretty words and promises
In between the hours of time that separate us,
Remember that I still promise you the opposite;

That when my pen dies, I’ll refill it, and
When my pencil dulls, I’ll sharpen it and
If my notebooks grow full, I’ll buy us a new one
For all the stories we’ll write in our heads.

i hope you were burned
just like me.

there was a dancing bear, balancing on a ball while the ringmaster cracked a whip and called to the crowd;
Tigerlily ran through the forest, cawing at the birds as she passed, while Captain Hook stalked behind her, using his two hands to wind a clock until it spun on it's own;
a boy met a girl and a girl met a girl and a boy met a boy and they all lived happily ever after;
the world came to a slow crawl, freezing the smiles and the joy and the happy tears on our faces;
Alice grew old in Wonderland and played bridge with the Red Queen;
a baby laughed for the first time over and over and fairies were born again and again;
love paid the bills;

this is what i did today: dreamed.

wonder away but don't wander away.
dream of far off lands and fairytale endings
but do it here, in myourthis bed.
pretend you're living somewhere else
where no one eats stale cereal for breakfast and
you never have to work late
but do it here, in myourthis apartment.
imagine breaking free, nothing -
bills, responsibilities -
and no one -
your mother, your boss -
holding you back
but do it here, by myourthis side.
picture another life,
another city's bright lights,
another dog's cold nose nudging you awake,
wonder away,
but do it here,
with me.