We're both tired, I'm sure.
So when I receive the message that says
so goodnight, seafarer, who lives
where the ocean meets the sky
forever
I'll respond with
goodnight, sleep well,
you're beautiful.

If my heart were made of blown glass
and if someone were holding it and carelessly tripped up the stairs
I would collect all the shattered bits in a dust pan
and be sure that the ones that resembled you
stayed in the corner away from the others.
Then I would rebuild
and place all of your bits
right in the center.

I love you because
you are written,
not typed.

Each word I write leaves something behind.
Every time I part my lips to speak about your name
my body goes limp and my brain won't work the same.
It's like a slug on a journey to the top of a rock
with salt pouring down to make him burn up.
Leaving a trail of slime more quickly as I burn you
through my jacket. Promise me your memories aren't skewed.
My breath on your face was as real as it gets.
With everything I put in, I come up third to last.
It all goes away one days and hits me harder the next.
Every time it fades I'm more okay. But when the missing comes back it tears through my chest.
I should let go like the wind blows the snow but I can't and you know
the breath on your face was more real than the place I call home.

To this day I picture you by my dresser standing pale without a stitch of clothing;
when things get tough I want you there. When things are simple, I only want myself.
Just a few months ago, I imagined I was leaning down to reach into the mini fridge
to grab you a snack while you sat on my bed and told stories of how my hair fell behind my back,
wrote poetry on my pillow case with every crease caused by your restless head.
Over summer I drew for you even though I hadn't held your hand in years and years.
On some of those pages was blood from nervous picking at my fingernails and tears
from being home sick for a home I hadn't known since before tenth grade, when we met.
The halloween before last, I'd imagine you calling me to tell me you thought I was beautiful.
Say, come outside, sweetheart, I've got a surprise. Immediately there'd be life growing in my eyes-
but you wouldn't call and I wouldn't open the door. I'd stay in bed awake and hurt my heart with more
or less words from your messages and silent text.
We yearned for each other but we agreed to not make a mess of this.
We have potential, but not just yet.
Last summer I saw you, spent the night in a tent.
You told me I was your best friend and two months later, left.
Last summer I told you, this would be more than a lesson.
Your voice made my knees weak and your words kept me sane.
You're a blessing without god; and I love you all the same.

I apologized to someone for dumping them three years ago
and thanked someone else for admitting their faults and thinning their pride.
Realized the faces I make during *** don't coincide with how I'm feeling
and noticed letting go doesn't always mean that love is fleeting.
Three people are tugging at my eardrums. Someone gave me a forehead kiss.
Two people told me today that I am their favourite person to laugh with.
One person told me that the ocean is in my eyes in response to the universe in hers.
I want to be more eloquent with words and the way I walk.
I want to put my top lip between someone else's before the bottom.
Have them look into me with a sword and proclaim,
"it's all there. Nothing was missing. Look, it's hiding in the corners."
Pull tweezers out of your pocket and reach all the way back to my spine,
pull out my DNA and everything else that's mine.
I never gave it away, I compressed it, kept it in shadow on a shelf.
I belong wholly to myself.

Three years with the palms of my hands still struggling to feel all of your skin-
but like when a microphone gets too close to speakers, the sound is unbearable.
Twelve days I went without trying to figure out how you are.
Your friend says you're a roller coaster but I find you to be more of a circle, the ring of a key chain.
I used to believe that there was a man who lived alone in a shack
by my grandparent's home, and that the man who drove the bus to take me there
has a pet alligator who lived in his bath.
The shack was for tools, the man had a house, and Tom didn't own an alligator.
I used to think my shivering in the middle of the night would be enough to shake those screws
from my head and wake you up from the lack of screeching.
We both fought to be the speaker. While I was growing weaker
I became the microphone.
And when I refused to accept  your words into the hallows of myself
you picked up your voice and headed west
without so much as a "check check check."