I want you to know I didn't mind the cold
of the tiles, sliding under the bathroom stall door,
holding your hair back and you laughed
when I did. Thank you, for listening
and talking even more. For raising your voice
but not slamming doors. Thank you for being
exactly who you are. We're lost, that's okay,
let's go downtown to a bar. No, thank you,
for being there when I threw up, too.
Regurgitate my feelings for every person new
and thank you for not dying, for crying to your mom.
I wish I had the courage to stop singing the psalms
at church earlier than this. I should have believed in myself,
the way you believe in me. I want you to know I see
the bits of you that you dislike, I'll love them all the same.
And thank you, too, for making sure I don't hold all the blame,
for taking some of the weight
off my shoulders. For being there
when I do things to build myself back up.
Thank you, thank you, thank you,
It will never be said enough.

The top of my head is warmer than my hands,
gloves and boots are getting quite damp
from the snow. I've never known
how much people thought of me
reading it in words forces my eyes open
to see bare feet wading into a pool
deep into the autumn, months past high school
graduation. Hot metal seats never had me smile,
Christmas trees past Christmas and broken ceiling tiles
are what I've lived for the past few years,
my laugh genuine bringing up tears
penguin underwear
everything I thought I'd never share
and my head is always hot and heavy
with my boots firmly on the ground.
There's sunshine in the coldest days
if you open your ears to the sounds.

Let's take a recording of your heart beat
incorporate the cardiac sounds
into a song,
send them on their way with nothing missing
something left behind.
Quiver and shake for nineteen days
stop short.
The world asked for a recording of your heart beat
to feel something alive and true.
Pass the green beans, tie your shoe
but it will never be that a head is laid on someone's chest
stillness in the room and a simple beat
something rhythmic to tap your feet
to. Quiet in the house, let's remember
there are people in need,
and people right here
who need us.
There are enough empty houses to give every homeless person four,
enough empty words to take them all back.
We're concerned with the cancerous children,
worried about the stray dogs and cry over
those without enough to eat. Food for the soul
is more rare than carrots these days. Take my hand and listen,
I'm right here and always have been.
Stop trying to find the missing girl three states over
and begin to search for yourself.

You were in the reflection of the car window at a stoplight,
sitting on the "rent-a-center" couches.
You are the highs in my voice as I'm screaming at the top of my lungs
the scuff on the front of my shoe.
You are dried salt at the corner of my eyes begging to be mined
used to save meat and people from themselves.
You are a blackened screen of a cell phone, you are lonely without light.
You are an empty bottle of pills, you are the scars left from a fight.
You are everything with meaning, yet you only live at night.
In the morning when I wake up you are not there.
You're a whisper from the open window, pushing in cold air.
You're a single word at dinner that I can barely hear.
You're the warmth held in the blanket from my toes up to my throat,
you're a crumpled up old letter, the word "love" scrawled in a note.
You're the biting cold upon my fingers that I cannot seem to shake.
You are everything to me at night,
gone in the morning when I wake.

She's sick of synthetic happiness,
smoke that makes her smile.
She'll kiss you in the moment,
thinking wow it's been a while
since she has felt alive,
or anything really.
She still didn't feel it with lips against hers,
***** and coffee (that's a thing, she learned.)
French toast at 3 am, let's drive around
scream at the tops of our lungs
"Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights are faded?"
the colors are faded,
I'll watch her blood fade as it mixes with hot water
swirls around the drain.
She's done telling me that the red won't change a thing
because our breath won't change a thing,
and the drinks won't change our heads
and the lips won't fix my missing you
I don't want to be here,
but where.
Run around the car three times at a red light,
try out listening to that new band.
Go to a club, wear something tight.
Drink more, stumble, laugh,
kiss someone you don't have feelings for.
Thank someone for saying you're pretty,
smoke another cigar. Inhale through your nose,
smile big in pictures,
smile big at people who smile big at you.
Slow dance drunk in the common room,
crack your back, love, call him up,
throw things. This isn't a poem.
It's a list.
Of what
has not
once
made me feel okay again.
Here is a list of
what makes me feel
at all:
you.

Maybe tomorrow
or the next day
     the next?
Possibly I'll find a loophole
to avoid getting this fixed.
And next week I'll crumble
from neglecting my head,
next year there is a chance
that I'll be bled out and dead.
Hell, an hour from now
a plane might fall
dive into my building.
I wouldn't mind if a disaster
accidentally killed me.
Tomorrow or the next day
or the next day or the next.
I'll never get it done, I know,
I'll never be my best.

You are not the ocean because I do not know that well,
you are not a meadow nor a stroll around the park.
None of these things mean much to me, although
they're beautiful in and of themselves.
You are the scent of incense that used to attack my nose,
eventually I craved it, now the smoke in my room grows.
You are laying on my back in the middle of the road
a kickball flying over me, no worries in the world.
You are a caterpillar making it's way across the street,
climbing onto my open palm so that we may personally meet.
Suction cup feet, pipe in it's mouth a formal way of greeting me.
You tickle my taste buds like peta chips,
you're like sleeping through Christmas morning
(something I could never miss
on purpose,
but if I'm tired enough, I might accidentally oversleep.)
You are grass with ants on each blade
but I lay in you anyway
roll around
breathe
it in
laugh, think,
when did this begin?
When I stopped appreciating little things.
The freezing water of a pool in the shade,
baked beans and a fire place.
New York City vendors
selling handicrafts.
My town written down
tucked away with other maps.
You are
an apple all sliced up without the skin,
you are the worm inside it, too.
Where did this begin?
You are a tree,
now trace my roots,
later trace my skin.
But only when I've figured out
what's missing from within.