the ocean came into my class one day
no knock
no introductions.
she told me to hold onto my desk, and I kept forgetting to breathe
but she washed over me calm and sweet.
her water felt more like my mother's touch
than my father's.

"you won't have to ask me about it when the time comes" she said
—as if I would!—
"I'm all for secrets,
as long as I know them(just tell me a little bit, please)
it's better that way, for my health and all"
she was more informal than I expected,
she told me that I'd be better off alone:
"someone like you" —as if I didn't know who I was!—
"should always keep a hand nearby.
it's easier to stay standing when you know you won't fall"

I listened for a bit to the waves
lapping up against the chalkboard—as if I could read it anyway!—
and when the bell rang the room cleared
alone, she whispered "this is better for us"
and I wasn't sure what she meant, but I nodded from my desk
"this is better than talking"
she held me close, inside of her.
her touch felt more like my own than anyone else's.

the sun makes me feel
like I need a bath—
my skin tingles and breathes beneath its rays.
I am in someone's comforting arms.
the warmth
of being
alive
is so easily forgotten.
                                             if you say something
                                    softly, "tell me a secret," then
                               I will be able to hear the scent
                                                            of your lips
                                                                  on the silent wind.

you close your eyes, not because you are afraid to look at me,
but because you must. there, in the
invisible moans that scamper out between breaths,
lies the secret I was too fearful
to speak:
                 I'm afraid to miss you,
but          I'm terrified of letting you go.

'i'm still nervous' when the phone rang
and i let things become silent so i may better understand my own breathing patterns (this will continue)

but what is it that i've convinced myself now?
that some form of being is greater?


a friend told me she was "lost
in between one feeling and another"(not much space, is there?)
and i told her i knew what that felt like(but i didn't until now)
she let her coffee get cold speaking.

ask me something, anything, and i will know how to answer
sometimes it isn't until you're honest with others
that you can be honest with yourself.

i'm not sure what there is to understand about this
(i'm only rolling credits)
i can't seem to place my focus on something tangible
(everybody cries sometimes)
you won't be able to change my mind
(just hold me)
you understand my impulses too softly
(it's better if i'm alone)
we are experimenting, but our safety goggles are getting in the way
(sorry for being so intrusive, abrupt)
we are touching, but our clothes are getting in the way
(i'm too cold)

i am asking you what is beautiful about this
what is beautiful about being here or anywhere or nowhere with you
how can two people or even one feel so much
i am asking you why it is so frightening to be lost
and why it is so hard to just lose myself

i wish i could fall asleep in your arms every night, where
i can be comfortable, and wake up
to your eyes each
morning, where

Everything is nothing when I am with you.

in the moments when whispers are heard
over screams or
seconds are slower than minutes

                                                        ­                   the dreaming becomes synchronized                                                                                  eyes are gold and light and nothing
                                                         ­                                                                 ­              remains
                                                  separat­e.

hand on my face
head to the east:  water
the flapping wings of an eagle pour through the air
what can you do with a person who refuses to be alive?

Saying things that are implied is only redundant if I am listening,
  but my ears have been filled with leaking thoughts
       and sounds reserved for when I flip the light switches down.
  loop after loop, it all becomes static
    his voice is a plant drooping from it's ***, melting down the sides
                    like lava I'm not afraid to touch.
   it is still nothing to yours:
Opening my eyes is harder than saying goodbye,
   harder than letting go for one cold, shivering moment
        even if all I need is enough breath to hold on tighter.
  the lines of your soft skin are muted whispers against mine,
              and the only visible movement dances colorfully inside of my eyelids.
     why is it so hard to
                    speak                when I am left
Alone, where thinking becomes almost excessively easy.
   it is too soon to mean it, or even let it float around
        while I cry, and wait for you to reach                        out
      and clasp it into the palm of your hand, where it will seep
   soak
           breathe in as part of your blood;
   but the feeling of not being able to convey how much I care
       is more taut than a balloon on the verge of eruption.
P**lease let me listen a little longer,
   breathe a little deeper,
   tell you things like thank you and ask you things like
                                            why?
           ­  because even I don't know sometimes.

"As long as there is room for error,"
she said,
"I am content."
her hair was that of a shih tzu,
her eyes were those of a raccoon.
when she felt something deeply, she couldn't eat.

she whispered about the color orange(turned a sickly green)
and enjoyed the repetition of vowel sounds.
one spell away from invisibility—
like shutting your eyes when the world is spinning too quickly—
and three snaps from sanity.
she held my hand before I knew her heart,
her fingers were a birds nest
but mine were chocolate and
melting fast.
"I'm feeling another person,"
she said.
"It is from my soul, and it is giving me cancer."

before dawn she got up and stretched her limbs
until they were elastic,
(longer than sausage links)
and almost reached the moon.
I was never afraid of the marks her teeth left on my furniture;
still,
it was coming out of her pocket.
her eyes were those of my dead husband
(I was almost sure she'd dug them from his very skull),
and she looked from side to side
until they rolled back in their sockets,
demonic
sensual
fiery.

"Dying is something I did in my past life,"
she told me.
"I won't be making the same mistake in this one."