I'd have sung to
the strum of your guitar

I'd have danced around
while you smiled crooked
and laughed like thunderclaps

I'd have held your hand
and rubbed my thumb against
freckled skin,
finding affirmations tucked in
the crevices and cracks of hard-working hands

I'd have kissed you
in the sunshine,
on the back porch,
while the sun set,
while mosquitoes flew around our heads,
in your bedroom,
listening to your favorite soundtracks,
backstage,
underneath table cloths,
next to your best friend

I'd have touched you
like lightning bolts,
caught all your storms
in jars,
worn your soft skin inside and out
and told you all my kindled secrets

if you'd have let me
I'd have loved you like a summertime

One of these days, he's going to write you a song.

One of these days, he'll be sitting in a pub with the lights husky and his brain muffled, and he'll run his fingers over the battered piano's keys. They'll be slightly sticky - his won't be the only drunk hands that have caressed them.

He'll tentatively start to work at them, a melody will form as if by accident. It'll be nothing spectacular. It won't be awe inspiring. It won't be destructive. It'll be quiet. It'll be gentle. It will haunt you for nights on end. It will remind you of something you've heard before. It will be just like his love for you.

He'll forget about it by the end of the evening. He'll drink himself into oblivion because if he sees you in his mind one more time - your head thrown back, blonde hair around your shoulders, eyes so light and alive, he'll go mad. He wonders if he's mad already. He certainly feels it most days.

In the morning, he'll find himself at the piano again. This will be a different piano. This piano will be a work of art in itself, he'll wonder if he deserves to use it. He does, he does, he does.

He'll flex his fingers, his eyes will go to your bracelet around his wrist. And he'll play. His fingers remember what his mind doesn't.
It might be a long piece, he won't ever be sure if it's finished. He'll call it "In Memoriam" publicly. To himself, he'll title it "An Apology in Motion"

He'll wonder if you'd have liked it, if you had ever heard it.

You would have. You loved everything that he created. You would have told him this, one day.

how much do you love her?
do you love her
like the Arizona mountains
that whisper to the sunsets that they are
magnificent paintings
rather than just a blushing sky

do you love her
like the Aztec ruins
with graceful ghosts of
****** sacrifices
that roam the rock and fallen shrines-
I bet there was a love like yours here too
I bet lustful eyes shared gazes here
once, too

do you love her
like a deep cave
with water falling for the
oil pastel walls
and with the echo songs of my past confessions,
my desperate pleas for your affections

do you love her,
please look me in the eyes
and tell me
she never compared
to the possibilities that my body holds
tell me boy
that you could give her up
and run to me
in summer
with fireworks bursting around us
and our limbs entangled..
please
be with me
give her up
be with me

you hand me my body back.
it is naked
and you have written “i wish
i could”
on my chest in red lipstick
emotionless, and limp
you leave me on the steps.
i always seem to ruin things

Here you are
somehow breaking my heart again-
this time
in a different way,
by betraying your own body
trading self- righteousness for substance

you are a Noah,
you are brave
in a way that I have never seen in any boy before
baby,
I see constellations that fill more than mason jars
in your mind
your fingertips drool with dreams
and your eyes are large in love with life itself
and you let these people steal your stars
like thieves
that cannot seem to come up with a better escape route

I know her hands look like exit signs,
and her hips make you forget all the times
your father called you less than a man
but your laugh still sounds like
a plea
for peace,

i know you are more
simple
and it breaks my heart
i promise you it does
to watch you
get less than what you deserve
out of this world--
step back Noah,
look at the ark you built
the floods of God
left you untouched and holy
let your pure light shine
because I cannot stand by any longer
to see it dimmed

Your name burns
at the base of my stomach,
it tastes like flames
when I say it
but I continue to swallow,
big gulps
that drown out the ringing in my ears

I wonder what it would have felt like
to kiss your lips,
taste the fire in your heart
blood red lust
like innocence dressed in her mother’s lipstick
to trace the outline of your freckles
on soft uncharted skin,
I wonder what it would have felt like
to be your cartographer
to sail the high seas in your iris
and find sand in between my toes
after every visit

I keep imagining the things I would say
if we had met at a different time
I could have started by throwing matches
into your puddles,
and noticing how you smile like sunlight
glinting of the ocean

you are across the world
exploring,
mapping your own skin
and sailing with a crew called options,
they beckon your name
and make you forget that our hands ever brushed,
that we ever exchanged smiles
like two preschoolers
making engagement rings out of fruit loops,
you’re standing tall and brave
shrouded in the peace of letting go
while, I,
wait at the port
for you to return
knowing at the base of my stomach
that you will pass me by on your way home.
“land, **!” means refusing to
acknowledge my tedious “hello”
you will step on my apologies
like the creaky old boards of a ship,
and I will become the tide
lapping at your bare feet

I’m typing to you my confession.
as you read,
I hope you imagine the quiver in my voice
when I say your name
and you’ll picture me eyes cast downward,
stomach twirling
hair flying in all directions,
let’s imagine I’m telling you this on the streets of New York
since we always talked about living there,
and hopefully you’ll imagine me in red lipstick
and with my hair curled
because that’s always when I feel the most confident.
what I’m
trying
to tell
you is
you’re my Northern Lights.
a strange, nebulous wonder
that enchants every cell in my body,
I cannot figure you out
no matter how close I think I am to solving your endless mystery,
and I want to spend my nights
wrapped in your arms
looking into your eyes
and softly whispering my words into your ears...

LET’S LISTEN TO THE BLACK KEYS TOGETHER
LET’S WANDER THE STREETS
AND PRAY THAT WE DON’T GET SHOT
I have always swallowed your bullets.
the most deadly one is when
you tell me about her,
your Northern Lights girl
who doesn't need red lipstick to feel beautiful.

and i think that’s the saddest line of poetry I have ever written

falling in love with you has always
been subway stations,
it has been falling through cracks
and braving alley-ways
there’s not enough story lines in the New York Times
to make us
dance in the streets together,
drunkenly in love with one another
at last
and i need to stop picturing
your face whenever i hear the phrase “meant to be”

Here is me,
tears dripping,
lips quaking,
walking away from your figure
and praying
that darkness
won’t lead me back.