i remember the feeling of being
ten a.m. safety nets fresh pages
it’s ten p.m. now.
i punched a hole in my nose
with a single silver jewel
called it freedom.
ocean waves struggle back
to where they belong
it’s not a choice.
giant waves pulsing through
veins every time you walk in
they belong to you.

i've spoken so many, many things these past days, sprouted feathers drifted gracefully between us
it was so easy
three years brought us here we smile in daydreams and realizations this is our life
calm, down to earth like clay
i'm lost for words in full places
writing is a friend to sorrow, these past days are excitingly kind
apart, i'll sit in bed tonight, pillows to my back, eyes tracing lines on the wall
for so long i've lost sleep to worry
this sleeplessness is the same yet so different, this sleeplessness is a train to somewhere new
you were the first boy i ever etched into poetry. and that fear i wrote of long ago was just that, a fear, it doesn't exist anymore. now we do

some knives are stone, some jelly and soft, even if both end up resting in the same place. sometimes. welded. fused. a deep cut, an always-bruise. i still can't wash the grape stain from my curtains blocking my view.
there were fifteen people in line today, sixteen minus you, i wondered how many knives they had. stone scraping bone, oozing jelly, blocked curtains, invisible. if i could, i'd take three from your back, plus the one in your foot, if you'd let me.
sometimes people forget about invisible knives. sometimes stone, but mostly jelly. they forget. take one look at me, give me two more.
what's two more, anyway

in ten thousand ways
i watch flames up ahead
swaying on ivory stilts
we sit in silence.
the color here is gold
ice at first, then the sun
we look skyward as far
as we can reach.
you're in the corner of
my eye, i need to
focus, jumbled music
are words we used to say.
sour turned sweet
somehow
peace to seep in open sun
morning windows
this is freedom.

you left the door slightly open on your way. swelling suitcase, silent, winding, cold iron staircase. i sit by the mirror, i'll take the pearls from my ears slowly
right, left, gone.
i try to write. they always told me i was much too quick to fade. i am a window in the snow, cold outside and in. i'll face the door with a broken handle, it wouldn't shut, it wont shut, i won't shut
i'll try again, but you wont come back
i've tried again
i dance to lovesick ballads in my mind, i wont lift a finger, none reach out
i'm a window, a friend to fog you never wanted to wipe away in the spring
it's winter now
in my bones, in my veins
lost in seas and oceans, dancing iced rivers of misunderstandings in circles
i try to write

my mind breathes color
painting memories with
faces in rich oils
light watercolor
water rarely dirties

you are a strong forest green
welcoming, rooted, sensible, honest

he is a gentle sea blue
jovial, calm, deep, understanding

my dear friend, carrying a foreign name, royal purple
the boy I used to fancy, burnt orange
the other boy, rich teal, when he returns my smiles
cinnamon, pearls, dusty blue

my father is honey-stained oak paneling
my mother is garnet fabrics
my brother is a vivid red

the woman behind the coffee counter this morning, sweet canary yellow
the man jogging past my house this afternoon, the color of granola and sand

and me. i.
the world is a kaleidoscope

     i have always been grey

cup of tea, apple pie
cinnamon swirling itself upwards
to meet my brain in inverted cascades
i drink thoughts, eat memories
tall sea waves
bare bones, i am here.
i laughed at watered herbs
smiled at curved picture frames
silent tambourines and deep
buckets of stone
i've never been fond of clean
lines in empty houses
give me ancient homes with
broken floorboards
time places its footsteps on
the ceiling
strong and sure, fragile and
changing
i watched your eyes when you
looked at him
i see it, smooth seas in a
hurricane, a hopeful heart.
100 Ways to be Happy
as if happiness were a person
How to be Happier, Being Happy,
Best Happiness Now
soft books, books made of
masks, i'm empty.
no, happiness is here
endless pages with empty lines
fresh dark ink pens overflowing
words as rich as dark cocoa
desserts from the man down
the street
this book with crimson
words, golden lining
cup of tea, apple pie
here i am, the next table over
come find me.