your loyalty fooled me
twice
*******.

Addiction doesn't go away, it just gets put on the shelf.

My son runs, wrapping arms around
my nebulous waist.

"l love you, Mom!"  He squeezes tighter,
as if letting go would be his black hole.

"I love you, too, " I squeeze back, absent mindedly.  (Where is the cream? I need coffee.)

"I love you more!" he breathes, without pause.
He gazes into my eyes,
searching my planets.

"Oh no, that can't be true," I retort.
I forget the coffee, his eyes are starlight.

"I love you to infinity!" he exclaims,
staring harder.

He wants to sail the Milky Way with me.

"Me too," I reply, and remember oxygen tanks.

I'm speaking in light years, and I hope the sound waves will catch up to him.

His face cracks into a million years of forever, before he lets go,
dancing across the universe of our livingroom,
his solar system intact.

At least for now.

Tell me about
your bicycle lights,
do they shine?
like embers in the
dark of night
or are they faded?
like far away stars
who omit some days
that they are there.
forget your bike.
I'll come find you.

I love him. I've loved him since the time he tied my left skate in March 2013. And it's a love that aches and hurts and explodes. But it's also a love that sings and twirls and laughs for no reason. It's a love that has you crying in the bathroom on a Saturday night but its also a love that has you dancing in the shower on a Monday morning. It's a love that's left me with cramped fingers, dry ink pens and full notebooks. It's a love makes me feel like a thunderstorm. It's a love that makes me feel like a sunset. He's not a home, he's a person. A wonderful one. And sometimes people say things like, "why would you forgive him," or, "why don't you just let go." And I smile. I used to get mad but out of all the types of love this is, it's also a love that's flexible. It's not a love that waits or chases but a loves that's there. It's a love that shares shoulders and stories. If I've learned anything about loving you it has been that if I cannot love you as a lover, I will love you as friend. I will love you messy handwriting, always asleep first, bad haircuts and all. Our love is flexible. Our love is patient. Our love is what happens when you rub your eyes. It's a love that bruises and bleeds and scabs and heals. It's a love that asks, "how was your day?" And would wait patiently forever for your reply. How was your day?

I was told that he-
   Yes, but were you told by him?
I heard that she-
   Yes, but did you hear from her?
I know that you-
   Yes, but do you know me?

My stomach churns to sour froth
when people know because they hear.
If you allow distant whispers to define knowledge
then your truth is ridden and diseased.
Such wounds fester, rotting in the filth of lies.

Stop feeding these ****** vines.
They are barbed and poison and coiling.
Constrictors of death: and they will absolutely consume you
squeezing until your pathetic, bitter brains
ooze liquid from your shattered skull.

If you are not a part of something, leave it be.

My mind feels enclosed.
It's surrounded by walls that block my pen from its paper.
Perhaps its because I drew them there.
But whenever I draw a wall I always leave a door.
You seem to know how to enter my thoughts.
So next time we embrace would you mind leaving the door open.
So I can let all my thoughts run free.

I write down my thoughts so they can breathe.
Don't mistake them for poetry.
I write to prove to myself that even on days I awake with my own blood on my hands.
I still am sane.
Or at least something similar to that.
Because if I was truly sane I would hate myself.
And I grew tired of that many months ago.