Dear Catherine,

Hope is a four-letter word
That only gets worse as you progress.
We can live in a house without any mirrors
And be beautiful anytime we want,
But when there is something uncertain
In your carefully guarded breath,
I know that you’re trying not to think
Of what is really going on with your hands.

Catherine of Crumbling Cities that seem more stable,
Of the smell of smoke, fresh and delicious, that eats us up whole,
There will be seconds stuck as a knife in your skin when you know
You can’t forget stolen ideas, like a box of letters not sent.

And it is then you will finally understand
Hope is a four-letter word that may never work out.
But if you know instead,
Know like a wig won’t hide you,
Then you will have a chance.
I know I love you, you do as well.

Dear Claudia,

There are two thousand miles between us
And I cannot possibly find my way.
There are two thousand miles between us both
And countless roads and cities and hopes and fears
Separate us.

Claudia, I called and called and heard your voice
I held in my hands letters from you and pictures, too.
I held in my hands all the envelopes.

I am not strong enough to see you live,
To understand that your life and my life may continue
Without ever intersecting again. Claudia, I called
And when we were finished I’d say
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow or the next day,
Or the next day, I’m sure’ even though
We both understood that was not true.
Claudia when we were finished
We’d say ‘I love you’ and both understand
That had to be true in order for me to continue.

Claudia, I am not strong enough to know
There are two thousand miles between us.
I still expect to see you wherever I go.
I love you, I miss you, and I am still here.

Between two expanses of obligations lies nowhere time,
It’s one in the morning and my breath smells like something slipped into my coffee
But I’m up anyways so there’s writing in scattered papers,
****** lips from biting, and jagged nails, too.

Winter eight through eleven was filled with things I don’t remember,
Now Mia in a white dress says she won’t be back next year
And suddenly everything is laid out so clear:
Eighteen months and the only difference is where I put my stuff,
Family is breaking and a straight face is the only way to save one.

Inadvertently surprised, when told
        you could already see it in my eyes
        And soon would spread
                                to my fingers

No longer unquestionable
        that the day encompasses light
        and that sleep brings rest

Connected to others through invisible
        undetectable pools of consciousness
        and experience, connected by more than just looks

Spread
        to your fingertips and now alone

I’m tired of feeling California-Time with my head and London-Time with my heart.
I don’t want to deal with zone differences anymore but I want you back.
Can you feel me, can you hear my subdivided heartbeat?
Touch me, pulse my triplet-timed chest, know that it beats for
One-two-three, two-two-three, three-two-three you.

muted light, smell of warmth,
music somewhere in the background
metered breathing and subtle movements

family is here, family is safe
but where is my head: lost in dreams

Every word I write is already known because these are the lines of your body.
Images of what you could be, outlines of what you have been,
Traced in chalk around pieces of paper all scattered on my floor.
You are every tree in this forest and at night when I’m here alone,
When it’s all breathing and no sleep, I feel saplings of you around me.
Every word I write is already known because these are the lines of your body,
And now my songs of you are heard at last.