where do wildflowers
come from?
here
in morning light
you can see
the light brown in my hair.
lying here,
time goes by
before we know it.
the sun
is drawing you —
long forehead,
then the curve
of your nose,
the top
of your lip
aglow;
dust
like stars
in the air
around us.
the pink sky
is reflecting on your skin,
and you're thinking
about something.
never planned
or calculated,
wildflowers grow
naturally
where they're supposed to;
where there is
a sign
of nurture.
turning to me,
shoulder against the window;
you —
a silhouette.
the golden hour
envelopes
us;
i
giggle
against your teeth.
it never
felt right,
but
i'm moving
out
and you can keep
the apartments,
cafés
and the good parts.
in morning light —
this is
perfect,
but
there are no wildflowers;
there never were.

and like all things
it ends
with a sigh,
a laugh,
sadness.
you've forgotten
to water
the plants
and
yourself.
you're making
sunrise
in a saucepan this morning.
you have run out of yellow
but
you have a pink,
magenta
turquoise,
emerald
and some lavender.
the grapes in the vineyard
are blushing
and
the endless winter flowers
are looking for you.
what clothes
have you packed?
take a jacket
and socks;
maybe a flask
of warm sunrise.
you're leaving again
and there's a blue train
at dawn.
the stars
brought lunch.
wind in your hair,
unheard of
such inexplicable joy —
already forgotten
what has gone by.
see
like all things,
here,
it begins
again.

the fitful sound of her shoes on the pavement on a really cold morning — it couldn't possibly get worse than it is today. the sun is turning but dawn is reluctant and heavy-eyed. crickets on a branch are singing to a nocturne. how can something be so sad, yet leave room for a bite of buttered toast with tea for breakfast and a laugh at noon? mixing swirls of watery light blues, pinks and peach-yellows to a dark blue sky, and feeling like you've lost something — could it possibly get worse than this? the pebbles look indigo under this light; the trees are sympathetic and breezy. under her feet, the dust; little twirl of air changing direction at her wrist; the suddenly glorious morning sky and, the quiet universe are conspiring to lift her up into the endless nothings, caress the corals and purples, and — any moment now — catapult her into the magnificently surreal magic that she is destined for. she is carrying her heavy heart a little further — couldn't get worse than this, could it? as if a deep breath, the trees stretch to the light, the dust shifts, a twinkle in the new sun — here comes.

i
miss
you.

i
miss
you.

air,
better with socks on;
nights
that still smell of bonfire —
it's sweet to know,
there is familiarity.
funny how,
the meanest of people
have cared sometimes;
the worst of times
have been so beautiful,
once in a while.
so easy to love,
so awkward,
so unseen,
often right
and
wrong for now —
i recognize
myself
over the years.
scared and lovely,
inauthentic
in the best way,
walking on the left
of a road
at sunset,
dancing
to the music
inside stores
and
hiding from people
in corners
and notebooks —
it's sweet to know,
there is still familiarity.
the stories
never align,
and there is always more
to sadness,
happiness
and love.
but here:
making shapes
of tissues,
forgetting directions,
laughing
to fill silences,
drawing waves
at the bottom
of ruled pages,
falling
for everyone;
the moon
still hazy with love
for the sun,
salty chips
and
thoughtless lip bites —
i know
i will always be here,
the same
and familiar.

what?
nothing.
i have nothing
to say.
for the lack of plea
and expression,
anyway,
I wrote you
a list of quiets:
- turning of a cab
into my lane at 10:30
- stirring sugar in tea
- closing the door
behind you
- last word in a letter
- squeezing toothpaste
onto a wet toothbrush
- millisecond to realize
something's funny
- a song
from the neighbor's window
- the longest argument
- drinking cold water
- searching for the towel
- kissing against a wall
- moment of not-over-this
at the kitchen sink, washing
dishes and spoons
- walking over to a friend
- switching on the string lights
- anxiety outside a restaurant
- warm feet on cold floor
first thing in the morning
- i think,
i really think
we can make the sweetest life.

the flowers are not real,
and our friends
are pouring in.
you are quoting a film;
pouring the wine
into imaginary glasses.
i made a playlist,
moved the furniture
and showed you
my collection of photos
of every time
I saw your name
anywhere.
the conspiracy is not real
and
the invisible party is tonight.
we took our time
to do nothing
and get nowhere.
they are celebrating us —
the empty room of no one.
no memory
of the next part.
you are not real,
and sometimes
when you really want
something,
it does not happen.