would it be
absolutely,
undoubtedly,
ridiculously
foolish of me
to think you
might think
of me,
as wonderful?
to think
the universe
is holding us
together
in the loveliest
of dimensions?
could i
for a moment
believe, you
aren't disappointed
by my ordinariness,
as i am sometimes?
that you find
my okay-ness sublime.
find comforting
my grammatical
mistakes and
mispronunciations.
maybe i'm
cute to you
with my crooked teeth,
soft stomach,
anxious heart,
shapeless hair.
maybe it's
crazy to imagine
you could
care about
the people
and things
that i love.
completely unrealistic
that i was
loveable
to you for
no particular reason.
there is not a chance
the world works
that way.
laughable
to talk about
a conspiring,
sentient universe.
...but
would it be
clearly foolish
of me to
still
think you
might think
of me
(of me!)
as wonderful?
would i be
just
out of my mind
to think you
might think
of me
at all?

the night echoed
of the downpour,
and this morning
there are new leaves
on the geranium.
i don't have
lovely words
to write today,
but we have
warm coffee
with a little cream.
maybe the ordinariness
of now
is poetry enough —
the spoon
resting on the countertop,
the silver lining
of your back
against the sunlight
as your write
in your notebook.
something lovely
about the bowls
in the cabinet,
about the rosy vase
you brought,
the dandelions
i brought.
you speak,
words swirling
into the music;
you say
something simple.
something about
watering the plants,
or social media
or the laundry.
and that's it
for today.
no grand gestures.
no moving moments.
no big plans
about a brilliant future.
i have
no lovely words
to write.
yet
this
is poetry enough.

the blue coffeeshop
around the corner
is open forever —
a little light on a street
that's otherwise pitch dark.
we're almost always
around the corner
for coffees, teas
and non-conversations.
here you look
like you looked a
decade ago.
here i can mix
and stir you with
hope, denial
and love
to make you into
a favourite person.
here with cups of coffee,
we cry, and kiss and burn
and talk about everything
and nothing at all.
we make it work, here.
we work. together.
aren't you glad this
coffeeshop never closes?
it never closes —
this little light in the dark.
i wonder who works here.

with coffee next to a seventh
floor window somewhere,
i've waited for the rain.
a floating grey sky,
breeze that woke one up;
put one to sleep.
the power's out again.
i'm stressing about
something ordinary i said
a couple days ago, to you.
you know
how anxiety works.
i apologise
i left without
"good to meet you"s
at the sidewalk.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
and never see them again.
you couldn't care less
about the side of the bed
they sleep on,
or if they would like to
have plants with you
around your shared apartment.
but sometimes
you meet a stranger
and you want to buy watermelons
with them, for lunch
at the weekend market.
you have your longest
argument,
walking in a parking lot
and you decide to
take a cab to your
favorite coffeeshop,
instead of heading home.
the stars stay glistening
golden in a purple sky,
when you stroll along
empty roads,
under bridges together —
howling dogs and
soft songs from an
open window for a minute.
you spend an evening
reading derrick brown,
and then a hundred evenings.
in a small kitchen
on a wednesday
you make
macaroni and cheese —
sharp cheddar and
smoked gouda,
a nice wine
picked up
from the weekend market
you frequent.
alone on a terrace
in august, you cry
about a memory you thought
you had forgotten
and they can tell
from your eyes,
when you come back home.
after a long week,
next august,
of feeling lost
and non-conversations
they quietly cry
into your cotton shirt shoulder
and you let them,
hanging on
on the floor.
spoons swirling
in cups of tea
over the years
you learn the ring
of their laughter,
and somethings they
say, sound exactly
like how you would say it.
you move again,
and again
and they take you
to a few music festivals
that you pretend to like.
in the shower
smelling of
coconut bodywash,
after you've made love,
you say you love them
for the first time.
after singing happy birthday
in june another year
they say it back to you,
for the hundredth millionth time.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
and never see them again;
sometimes you
sit in imagination
and make a life out of it.
sometimes you meet
a stranger
sometimes
you don't.

the cold swirly
wind outside
sounds like a
whistling kettle
against my
closed windows.
ankles buried
in a duvet,
cuppa hot cinnamon
coffee, nocturnes
under pink light
- inside it's warm.
thank goodness
it's warm.

the smell of
coconut oil and
warm coffee in
the morning,
rustle of the
pages from a
notebook,
sweet minutes
of silence
between the
breaking of your
pink sleep and
checking the time:
love more things
while you can.
yes, today is going
to be as ordinary
as tomorrow. and
maybe the day after
will be the same.
so break a stick
of cinnamon, let it
simmer in your tea.
move your furniture
around,
let yourself be
a little late for work
and love more things
while you can.
while your sink is
hopelessly clogged
and the rainwater seeps
through the walls,
when someone has
been very rude to you,
during the power outage:
look up the words
and sing along to a
favourite song. go out
all by yourself to get
a new toothbrush.
also whole wheat pasta,
fresh tomatoes, garlic,
basil and cheese
for a hot dinner.
bask in the sun
a little more.
make friends with the rain.
laugh when you really want
to laugh.
recognize when you're
anywhere but present —
bring yourself back.
and in the middle of that
and most of all:
love more things
while you can.

let's make a house
of lamps and sheets
and our awkwardness
to spend an afternoon in.
the world —
a swirly mess
of dust and blue
can go on without us.
in orange-yellow light
i can see a life in your eyes
flickering like bonfire,
like an evening sun,
like hope.
heavy footsteps,
broken glass —
the flat around us
is of the monsters
that we have been running from.
but
here under sheets
we are home.
so we lie down
pretend we aren't afraid.
you play The Beatles —
Michelle, on a CD player
and i tell you about
a happy story from life.
something about sour candy
and a rainy day.
it's surprising how
comforting the ordinary is.
coming out
of small-talk
we talk about how
we hate it.
that old photo of you
standing next to your sister,
from when you were 5
is hilarious.
i can't believe
how uneven your
dad cut your hair.
older now,
we are still uneven
in other ways. other
good and bad ways.
"you know anxiety too?
oh, i know her. she's
lovely most of the time."
we talk about the smell
of fresh bread. soft,
cream coloured.
you need a new toothbrush.
i need new glasses.
there is still room to
discuss existentialism
in a universe of
combusting galaxies.
turning to me —
a part of your face
lit in the golden
lamplight,
you ask me
to be honest.
absolutely honest.
there is a tear
in the sheets,
and outside
it's getting louder.
you're waiting for
an answer.
i hesitate
as the monsters
find us —
"let yourself be
till you need to be."
a light goes out.
you're still smiling.