A sunny summer day,
A lonely country road,
He’s driving;
But he is not here.

He is in 1982
With his long black locks,
A mischievous smile
And a rebel attitude.

Young bodies fill the car,
Along with a tangible excitement
Of what the night will bring.

His lanky body sprawled in the passenger seat
A cigarette hanging from his mouth
Beer in his lap.

Hoots and giggles fill the silent summer night
As they cruise through town,
The car is the party.

He is in 1982
But I am in 2015

His worn body sprawled in the driver’s seat
A cigarette hanging from his mouth
A mischievous smile as he points out
All of the old hangout spots.

Stories, he is made of stories.
Friends, fights, pranks, parties.
He tells them as if they were
Yesterday.

He runs a hand through his short,
White speckled hair
The lines on his face turn down-
His eyes twinkle,
He’s laughing again.

Blasting the radio,
Head bobbing, voice screaming along
To his favorite Godsmack song.

Music fills the silent summer day
As we travel through town
Leaving one home
For another.

White, cold, wet, sharp
It stings, nips
It buries,
Buries you in its
Heavy blanket
Let it, do not fight
This cold coffin
Could be home
Let the sharp breaths
Stab your lungs
Allow the wetness to
Wash you away
Become the cold, the ice
Disappear in the white-
Be at peace.

Rise. Stretch your limbs. Let them crack. Ease them into the new day. New day. Freshen your eyes. Let them see. New day. Beautiful day. A good day. Put on your face. Fix your hair. Smile, smile. New day. Same you. Dress. There, a new you. Leave, go. School, work. Smile, say hi. Don’t keep to yourself. Other people make you happy. Remember? Drink coffee that helps. Eat, don’t forget to eat. Try to learn, you like learning. Now, dance. Let your limbs move. Let them feel. Let them be free. Then shower. Wash away the day. The meaningless minutes. The empty hellos. Now, lie down. Rest. Wasn’t that a good day? Sleep. Tomorrow, will be exactly the same.

For Sunday mornings, and
Autumn air
For sisterly love,
For a father’s humor, a mother’s knowledge

For The Book Thief and To **** a Mockingbird,
For every word that has touched my soul
And for the souls who shared them with me

For sorrow, joy
For kindness, friendship
For all the blessings a day gives.

For all of the times I did not say it
I say it now

I had to move
the tissues
closer to my bed

because I was
a dam that could
burst at any moment.

For weeks,
they were there
for me, close.

Today, I put
them back
on my desk

across the room.
It doesn't seem
like a feat,

but believe me,
it is.
I no longer cry.

is one of those colors that is so bright and happy,
yet there's an emptiness to it.
The kind of emptiness, only captured over time.
Time chips it away, as it does most things.
We are left with the hope of the past,
the faded walls or chipped nails of a color
that held so much in it, and lost it all
when we stopped looking.

They speak of you everywhere,
Books, movies, friends
I hear you arrive when
Hands are held, or
Eyes connect,
Or even with small smiles,
Excited thoughts
You show up when the
Presence of one person,
Excites another, even if
They do not yet know,
Why they are excited
Your fluttering wings,
Remind them to pay attention
This one is special
You say while filling
Their stomach with nerves

I heard about you,
All of the time
Books, movies, friends
I never thought you
Would visit me
With the others,
You never appeared,
I waited for the flutter
That never arrived
Though tonight, there it was
The sensation in my stomach
Was more than welcome,
Thank you, you are right
He is special
So please,
My butterfly friends,
Stay a while

The quickest way,
To a women’s heart,
Is through her ears.

When she hears
Hypnotic melodies,
Those sweet nothings.

Start with her ears
Soon her body follows
One with the sound.

Music will sweep
Her off her feet.
Twirl her around.

Find the right tune
She will always
Come back for more.

Get her moving,
In that blissful state,
Of just being
And she’ll be yours.

your hand on my back,
tracing patterns on my skin,
our own secret language of hieroglyphics
fingertips dancing along my spine,
my mind starts to drift
I've gone somewhere else
a land of music,
and bodies swaying to the beat
I could stay here forever,
with you, and your dancing fingertips

I work with many elderly people and they all sing the same song.
“Honey, whatever you do, don’t get old.”
They usually say this when a seemingly simple task is too difficult.
Their bones all sing the same the song too.
A stiff tune, no rhythm, off key.
Every movement, an awkward note in a song no one wants to sing.
It makes me realize how little my body has lived, and how ungrateful I am.
On the days when I “can’t” get out of bed,
I inevitably end up swinging my legs over the edge,
And hopping up, greeting a day of possibility with grumpiness.
Oh what my friends would give for my bones,
The joints that move them, the muscles that carry.
My body is an upbeat, joyful song I rarely let anyone hear.
I feel as if my body is heavy with the weight of the future on my chest;
Theirs is heavy with the past on their back.
But how lucky are they to have lived such long lives,
Lives full enough that their body can’t recover.
And how lucky am I to have one before me…
And though they can’t hop out of bed,
I cannot count the number of times they’ve danced with me while I am holding them up.
Can you imagine? Loving life so much that you’re willing to risk extra aching and pain,
All for a second of pure joy.
Just for a second, of two perfectly imperfect melodies, harmonizing.
Just for a second, two young souls,
Dancing.

A rib cage.
Rib. Cage.
Your rib cage.
Cage.
Lock.
Key.
Your heart,
Lungs.
Breath and
Soul.
Locked in,
safe.

frozen smiles are our
own person shadows.
the sun is not necessary.

it is funny how we
smile without
genuine happiness.
force the muscles to
turn and in turn
hope we look lively.

and there is the shadow,
it is in the empty smile
there is no light there,
but, light is not the
only beauty.

i love photos
with no smiles.
the ones with fierce glares
or grieving eyes.
give me a scene with
real life, anger, sorrow.

i would rather see that,
feel that,
than be met
with emptiness.

In the morning when your eyes can barely open, open them.
In the morning when silence is a gift, cherish it.
In the morning when the sun is not your friend, greet her.
In the morning when your blanket is your lover, leave him.
In the morning when the cold pushes you down, rise up.
In the morning when the day mocks you, laugh back.
This is the morning where everything can change,
Embrace it.

the birds are singing today,
so loud and beautiful as if to say
it is Spring remember, please
it is Spring

then the snow lands on my skin,
cold and wet, as if to say
I am still here, please
*don't forget me

how can he not see
the narcissism of his tongue.
to think that if i ever,
poured my heart, my pain,
into a collection of
words, stories and poems
that if i ever
took the time,
to give myself like that,
it would be for him.

The weight of everything I am not
sits on my chest every day.
The fear of falling tugs on my legs.

I am stagnant in this life,
and I am so stuck I cannot change it.
I am foolishly wishing for the
universe to notice me,
for a cosmic intervention.

Thinking that will give me purpose.
But I am so frozen,
staring in one direction,
I never look up.

Perhaps the stars are trying
to tell me something profound,
and I will never see.

And I think that is the heaviest,
and saddest burden to bear
of them all.

i have always been a lover of words
novels, poetry, music, conversation
the syllables, sentences strung together
just right create a symphony that
makes my head spin and heart flutter

and your words...
they have become my favorite song

but for the first time in my life,
i am starting to see how
actions can be better than sounds

i love your words, but i want you
to show me what they mean

please, you've written beautiful music,
now dance with me.

Two little girls in a seashell frame,
Posing on the beach.
Can you see the family resemblance?

The first girl is tall, ghostly white skin, and a bony, slender frame.
With hunched shoulders, she makes herself disappear.
She is a magic trick.
With a ****** in stomach,
She is the girl who was cut in half.

The second girl is shorter, with darker, glowing skin,
A body with curves.
She makes herself bigger.
Stretched out arms, skin spills out over her swim suit.

She points, staring at the camera.
Daring anyone to tell her she’s wrong,
That her body isn’t perfect.

The girls grow up being told they’re mistaken.
Skinny is confidence,
Chubby is shame.

Look, can’t you see?
Confidence is defiance,
It is a presence, it is taking up space.

Over time, the sun blesses the pale girl,
Scatters kisses over her body.

She is now the night sky,
With new constellations,
Beautiful in a different way.

Over time, her sister becomes the sun,
Opposites, in their beauty and brightness,
Yet equal all the same. And her sister
Teaches her how to defy everyone,
Who wants her to disappear.

Both, are escapes.
I write when I need to express
When I am bursting with emotion,
I pick up the pen.

I pick up the brush, to distract.
Don't focus on the tears, no.
Focus on the eyes, lips, cheekbones.

My face is a landscape.
I plant flowers on my lids and lips,
Trim my eyebrows,
Grow my lashes.

A sense of accomplishment, at the end.
In the mirror my beauty shines,
A little more brightly.
I forgot why the tears visited.
My pink lips smile.

It is the bottom of the deep end
It is the highest apple on the tree
It is a perfect score on the test
It is a goal, a finish line
It is something we all like to think we have
It is the belief we can do anything
It is unique to every person
It is wasted by many
It is my biggest fear, that
I will never reach my own.

I am glad you
Have her now
She must fit
Better, I think
Her hands in yours,
Your bodies
Wrapped together.
We never fit,
We were
Two puzzle pieces
That look as if
They belong, and
You try, you try to
Force them to bend and
Fit together,
But you can’t.
Maybe I was too big,
Or you to sharp,
We almost fit.
I hope she does,
I hope she is your
Missing puzzle piece

they really do seem
like windows to heaven,
maybe that's the trick

once we get too close
we see they are nothing more than
fire and heat, scorching
anyone in their path

perhaps they are
portraits of Hell
put there by the devil
to tempt us

the dark side
can be so beautiful,
but it burns.

he loves me, he loves me, he loves me, i sing
the song is on repeat in my head
he loves me, he loves me, he loves me
the melody swirls in my mind
he has become my favorite song

i think i love him.
i love him i think.
i've been told you know when you know,
here is what i know.
when i am not with him,
he consumes my thoughts.
when i am with him,
i never want to leave.
any essence of him,
his name, a thought, a text,
makes me smile and smile.
i want to know him
in ways i've never wanted
to know another human soul.
through him, i see myself differently.
i like who i see.
he challenges me.
i like to think i challenge him.
we are alike but very different,
complementing each other so that
we both are brighter but do not
outshine the other.
when i am in the clouds,
or in a dark corner hiding from the world,
just his presence brings me back,
helps me see the world and its beauty again.
he knows me in ways i never
dreamt another human soul
would want to know me.
i know all of this.
and i know,
i've never felt this way before,
and i know,
when he sends me messages
filled with witty words and sweet ones,
i smile and smile.
and my first thought is,
*i just love this boy

How many?
How many poems?
How many breaths?
How many tears? tissues?
Cups of tea? blankets?
Hugs? cookies?
How many?
Give me a formula.
Perfect addition, let me
Figure out how many of
These little comforts will
make up the
sum,
of my
happiness.

the embers
danced just for me

who knew a
dying thing

could be so
beautiful

What if we,
could love
while we sleep?

Meet in our
dreams,
be a tangle
of limbs and bodies.

Then wake
the same way
in the morning.

Never missing a moment.

I am lost, and my maps
have turned to ash in my fingers.
I am wandering with no direction,
waiting for someone to tell me to stop.

Emotions are friends,
and enemies.
They bring you to the
top of the mountain,
only to push you off.
I wonder, what it
would be like,
to have none.
No friends, or foes.
Simply alone,
existing.
Never climbing the
mountain, reaching the top.
Never to see the world,
in all it's beauty.
It is worth the risk
of falling.

Just one person.
One person, one body.
Two hands, two eyes.
One bed.

Just two people.
Two people, two bodies.
Four hands, four eyes.
One bed.

Give me the crowded bed.
The tangled limbs,
Perfectly warm.
Let my sleepy eyes open,
To you.

I fear I am losing him,
to himself.

He is seeing all the things he wants to be.
I wonder when he'll realize,

that version of himself,
might not want me.

loving him is like being among
the flowers and birds,
peaceful, natural

Be mine, be mine.
You, over there.
With strong hands,
A gentle smile.
Will you be mine?
No, you don't know me,
But you will.
Every part, if you want.
We could be soul mates.
You don't believe in them?
Me either. I was joking.
Will you still be mine?

i love him in way
that let's me love myself,
and that is everything

Artists capture moments.
They capture moments with patience, with perspective.
Artists capture moments in different ways.

A photographer will show you the beautiful butterfly,
resting on a flower.

The painter will show you what is out of frame,
a little girl staring in wonder.

And the poet will tell you how magical it was,
how the park quieted for a moment when the
butterfly flew and landed on her nose-

Then there it is - a photo, of pure joy.

Then all three artists, smiling in awe at this moment.
This small, precious moment.
One many would have missed.
But now is forever immortalized,
by observant souls.

When I asked him what he was thinking,
he said nothing.

He can do that apparently,
just sit there, relaxing.
His mind a calm sea.

I am always thinking.
I cannot stop.

Waves and waves of thoughts,
always attacking me.
I fear one day, I might drown.

The only objects
I have ever felt
true attachments to,
are my books.
They are so much
more than ink, paper, and leather.
When they are lost,
I lose a memory.
I lose who I was when I read that story.
Stay with me I know that sounds silly.
For example, I lost my copy of Twilight.
A trivial novel, maybe.
But when I lost that book,
I lot the 13 year old girl
who fantasized about her own
vampire romance. Or any romance.
And some might say good riddance
to those foolish fantasies.
But every now and then when
my mere mortal romances are too much,
I'd love to pick up  Twilight,
re-read and imagine my own vampire boyfriend,
sweeping me off my feet.
When I lose my books, I lose that opportunity
to escape.
If only for a little while.