My body
ached for you. I ache for you. My shoulders pop
my knee caps too.
My spine is stuck in one position,
I need your fingertips on me.
My toes are constantly in movement,
feet unstable as the sea.
My skin is full of goosebumps,
teeth are clicking just like keys,
and finally my lips quiver
because they know where they should be.
I swear I hurt the most
with you right by my side,
my words striving to open up
the inside of your mind.
My body stretches every morn
and reaches towards the sky.
I'd rather reach for you, my dear.
Brittle bones, shaking heart, voice
dies.

There was a sun catcher I painted for my mother
but I couldn't ignore the light in your eyes
with your mouth opened wide
and a tab on your tongue,
eyes reflecting the sun.
From then on I promised
that catcher would get to your hands
but you flew too high up
and you never did land.

My list for this year:
No boxes or sparkles,
no red ribbons tied.
I won't ask for much-
1. Stay by my side.

Stuck to my computer screen like
dry ice
complaining about plane rides
bus seats warmed
by the people there before.
I mean to wonder why they went where they went to
but I don't mind much anymore.
Ask questions constantly and plan our escape
but it will never happen
your mindsets always flake
off and away we go just for the night
through poorly written paragraphs and
promises of flight.
Surrounded by "love love love"
it's all words though, that's not enough
to keep me going, stay on my feet,
gain the energy to take a running leap
Let me leave here and never return.
Every
everything I knew turned out to be unsure.

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.

Come to think of it,
I'm not so sure
if I ever did
get the water out of my ears
that found its way in there
during a pool party
four years ago.

Several times, I spoke to you and said that your arms are my home.
The eviction notice came shortly after, coffee stained and stapled to my forehead.
My house still stands and I have a warm bed to sleep in,
so isn't it lovely how I can build a new home in my head?
I tried this summer to find the meaning of what that should be
and happened across your outstretched arms
only seeing in hindsight that I had pried them open.
You were meant to be a kind word, never soft skin.
Sitting at the bottom of a snowy hill,
yelling to the top
I realized home is where I've been heading.

I had a dream about the ocean and you
were under my bed in a lounge chair,
tongue out, care free
you said you wanted to be kissing me.
And so we did. You laughed,
not thinking about the past
your father stumbling around your kitchen
or peanut butter sandwiches. We can
do anything really, but what we will do is
stay away.
From me. I mean, stay away from you.
You're like a whirlwind and you think
you'll bring me down, too.
But if my feet are planted
firmly on the ground,
or if I'm under the earth,
a whirlwind is better than the settling of dirt.
Lift me up and slam me down
I want me feet high
high off the ground.

I love you because
you are written,
not typed.

All your art?
Your father threw it away,
sculptures of music that my
hands had helped
create.
It has molded in the yard,
cloth I had tied around my head
as I danced and we drank
malt soda. You've always
always always always
always been beautiful.
It doesn't take me to show
you that. You know.
The need of man's hand on the small of my back,
the shallow of my spine and the shallow of
myself is not art.
Your father threw your music in the yard,
your writing stays right on my desk.
Your words cannot be rotting in the woods,
they'll be safe here with me.