I wish someone had told me
while I sat in frilled white socks
and a pink dress on Easter
that love isn't just
for one and only one

I wish someone had told me
that while I would fall for a few
or many
that guilt was useless
because time is thin
and people are sudden
and you can't help what you see

While I watched judges, pastors, shamans
tie the legality of love together in bows or Gordian knots
no one ever told me about the power of eyes
or how to feel about fluttering caused by another
while I'm supposed to remain landlocked with just one someone

Now I'm sick
because of all the feelings screaming through my fingers, curling them, and I have nowhere to place them, and yelling falls in the quiet because I'm guilty
guilty
guilty
of thinking about others
when, apparently, I'm only supposed to think of you

I wish someone had told me
that love is not an is or isn't
It's a maybe, how are you, do you like ramen, music, don't leave, goodbye
And it most certainly hurts
when you aren't sure what to do about the others
who's eyes are pools and who lure you to the edge and pull you in and then you lose them altogether

Why did no one tell me

I feel the lull of the sun, day by day, and wonder if I have to

When the moon, hanging on a string, shifts the tides

and pulls me in.

Do I have to

When the screams of glittering stars fall around me

and break in my palms, slicing my hands,

and the sun and the moon beg for my face to turn unwavering

Do I have to

I find myself holding my breath for you
when I'm down in the subway
dark and dingy
I'm waiting to see you
in between people
or through the grime and grease windows
on a train going the other way

I swallow up the air
when I'm out in the city
turning around cold corners
and blinking to change the scene
of the faces in front of me
as the thought of bumping into you
turns my palms wet and sweaty

I'm holding my breath for you
but my vision is blurry and
there's a strain going down my neck.
I hope you're holding your breath for me too

I have been picking up more poetry lately
tightly bound in little books
ink blots on long gone trees

I hope that by reading more poetry
more lines and rhymes and colorful analogies
I could become a writer with words worth reading

I have read those books with prose
disguised as poetry, lacking meaning
and depth with such phrases like
You Are Air and I Breathe You In

I cannot stand the uselessness of prose
without thought
but I also cannot stand poetry
without impact

But I will keep collecting poetry
someone's thoughts on delicate pages
in case I happen upon someone else's words
worth reading

I wait for
the golden hour to strike
and flood my room
with gilded lethargic light
but it does not come

I wait for
the stark bright white
of the many-faced moon
to fill
the onyx heavy night
but it does not come

I wait for
the sky to be set alight
by the glittered stars
falling and stationary alike
but it does not come

It's been so long

I wait

Why are you so
familiar to me

You can't know the waves
until you have experienced their roar
that comes out of the bubbled seafoam
or their intensity
that uprushes your legs
and lures you towards the setting horizon

You can't know music
until you have been pulled in
by the thrum of a guitar that echoes
into your heart
or the emotion that overflows through
your fingertips and your eyes
when the chord has struck

You can't know the sun
until you have encountered
its sweltering heat in midsummer
that fills your lungs to the brim
and draws out every piece of energy
through your skin
or the softness of the glow
that is filtered lighted through
the red and orange leaves
on a brisk autumn day

So why are you
so familiar to me

You don't know
just how you've
destroyed it

Just how you've
created spaces
replaced it all with air

Just how you've
let the dust settle
in between the floorboards
and our fingers

Just how you've taken
all the thunder
and left
nothing
but the rain