the perimeter remains
a puzzle
without its centerpiece.
as at rest
as an
open beat.
a fist full of meat.
a trophy
of
atrophy.

I can't begin to fathom how to describe how this feels.
It feels good like a cup of coffee in the morning,
But it also feels like an afternoon crash.
It feels like a high so good
But also a withdrawal most painful.
It feels like everything
Yet nothing at the same time.

Can you hear me?
I call,
Everyday.
To you, to him, to them.
Can you hear me?
I sit here,
Everyday.
I don't have much to say.
But, will you listen,
Anyway?
You can walk away,
They always walk away.
No one ever stays.
But,
You could.
Yes, we could talk,
Yes, us.

Will you stay?

Wait!
Don't go away!
Wait.
Don't go away.

Come tomorrow.
I sit here,
Everyday.
You can listen,
To what I have to say.
I call,
Everyday.

*Can you hear me?

I love old books—
         their smell,
                  soft and softly mottled pages,
                  font-faces,
          and carefully illustrated frontispieces.

My bookshelves are lined:
         old copies of ancient classics.

I love buying old books—
         the lost treasures they are,
and the lost treasures they hide:
                      tram tickets,
                      letters,
                      not­es,
    two-dollar-notes,
              and scholarly students' scribblings.

I have some books I fear to open
         for fear they'll fall apart.

There are some who love old books—
         their possibilities,
                 malleabilities,
         and superficialities.

Their bookshelves aren't lined.
         But rooms of reams of bunting, and tables of origami.
                          (or soft and softly mottled picture frames)

They love buying old books—
         not for wisdom,
         nor connections to ancestors.

They've no fear of giants' shoulders;
         whole worlds are torn apart.

it's okay i know you're busy
i'm just laying down, and every five minutes i
type a text to you
saying something different each time
from
"i love you and miss you!! can i come see you?"
to
"i hate you so much how could you do this to me"
but i don't send any,
because i've already sent two.
and i'm trying to give you the space you deserve.
i want to spill
all my secrets to you.
but more than that, i want  to know all of yours.
so badly,
i want to know all the things that will hurt me
beyond repair.
Having my heart ripped out by you would be
better than having one.

not lost or found
nor seeking or avoiding
just **being