Hey. Listen.


Can you hear me breathing?
my thoughts are in piano notes
I'm thinking up a symphony of
you. It snowed yesterday and
I wondered where you were---
not in any needy kind of
way, just a curious kind of
way. Can you hear me breathing?
it sounds dense and collected, my
bike spokes click in time with your
watch because there could be years
between us but there could also be
days or hours. If you would believe
it, I can feel you on windy days
when your readiness is something
to be desired. But so much of the same
can be said for me, s o  m u c h  o f  t h e  s a m e
because maybe it was never me waiting on you


but y o u waiting on me.

sleep against my thigh
my skin is made of steel
so you melt the edges
with your breath,
draw figures in the grey
like windows in the cold,
you huff, puff and the frost
is gone, your hands burn
imprints on my waist and
crack my hips that are made
of glass, a fracture line that
carries up my chest, an
earthquake that shifts
through my bones, that
haunts me when you're not
at home, so come home,
come home,

come home.

i shot off rockets into the sky months ago
that burst into words to  remind me to
keep going     keep breathing     keep
holding my heart   higher than the
river of   y o u r   hands that was
flooding down  m y  street and
threatening   to   break  down
my  door.  i  put all  my  best
pieces in aboxandsentthem
to myself    (cc: my closest
friends)   and i am ready
to get them back, to put
my    h e a r t   on   my
sleeve where i have
always  kept it,  to
have you   f e e l
from across this
town that you did
not break me, did not
damage   me,  did   n o t
destroy my gumption or my
eagerness to take on the world,
did not make me into something
i am not.   i am a    worrier but    a
w        a        r         r        i         o         r
and  i  will  not  stop  going  until  my
head is quiet and my hands are still.
and  this  thing you  did  to me- this
supposedly life altering thing- will
just be a soft  reminder  of  only
the  climb i  made  to get  me
back    to    where    i    am.

I crave the dens,
the brick caves strung
with lights where no
one is above the murmur
where girls come to leave
necklaces wrapped in lined
notebook paper (here, take
this, take this from me, please)
and the various spaces are lined
with a thick aroma of espresso
and the burberry perfume from
the woman at the table over whose
thighs could stretch across the atlantic
but ships could never sail across her
in the way you can't tread over hot
coals, climb mount everest in a day
or ask her out for coffee.

I miss the things I never
did, the ferry ride I never
took, the brittle cold that
sunk to the depths of my
toes and the sushi place
down the street from my
house. You can whisper
that I'm doing the same
thing but I miss the leaves
at EDCC and the rain,
quality frozen yogurt
and the front row at
Loews Theater, I miss
the sound of my wheels
privy to the Boeing freeway

You can whisper that I'm feeling
the same way but I miss things I
don't recognize, the drive past
the lighthouse and the neighbor
who had music too loud, the
shy cashier at Fred Meyer
and also their apple
display that was
aesthetically
pleasing.