You and your last love had a falling out.

Cue the music; cue the reprise of your
affection after endless scenes of off-key
orchestra, after months of wondering if I
had imagined the intimacy of those
moments.

A milky night, fog like cream with sugary
stars, and the smell the wind carries, earthy
and rough, setting the whole feeling askew.
You don't love me. I know that. You're just
lonely.

You like the closeness, like to trace the lines
of my face, the angle of my jaw, like children
connect the dots on paper, thick lead bared
down too hard, next to their coloring books
and crosswords, an activity they abandon soon
enough. You know how children can be: fickle.

I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this
with you, but I will. And you know. You know
I'll take anything I can get. I'll be the doormat
out front if I have to. I'll be the rooftop, on the
off chance you feel like looking at the stars again.

Come sit next to me. I want to watch the
minutes move. I want to know what sews the days
together, what makes the seconds tick. It's noble
enough, I suppose. Not everything is shrouded in
intentions, but most things are. You would know.

I should resent you for it, but I don't.
I'm too busy loving you.

You and your last love had a falling out.

Cue the music; cue the reprise of your
affection after endless scenes of off-key
orchestra, after months of wondering if I
had imagined the intimacy of those
moments.

A milky night, fog like cream with sugary
stars, and the smell the wind carries, earthy
and rough, setting the whole feeling askew.
You don't love me. I know that. You're just
lonely.

You like the closeness, like to trace the lines
of my face, the angle of my jaw, like children
connect the dots on paper, thick lead bared
down too hard, next to their coloring books
and crosswords, an activity they abandon soon
enough. You know how children can be: fickle.

I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing this
with you, but I will. And you know. You know
I'll take anything I can get. I'll be the doormat
out front if I have to. I'll be the rooftop, on the
off chance you feel like looking at the stars again.

Come sit next to me. I want to watch the
minutes move. I want to know what sews the days
together, what makes the seconds tick. It's noble
enough, I suppose. Not everything is shrouded in
intentions, but most things are. You would know.

I should resent you for it, but I don't.
I'm too busy loving you.

feather
light
tunnel
     skate
         across
     skin
and
just
barely
    there

You might have seen them through the window,
a little girl pouting on the stool and her mother
behind her, deft fingers weaving the strands
together, chocolate hair in french braids and the
wrinkles in her blue gingham dress.

There is a beginning to everything.

Golden-hair boy, caramel colors glinting in the sun,
pieces that flopped over his eyes and plastered
themselves over his forehead when the wind blew
erratic. He wears t-shirts streaked with dirt and high-
water jeans half-rolled, half-bunched up to his knees.

She thought, I could love this boy.

They're in the field again, ankles itching under her
frilly socks and ants crawling over her shoes. He lets
one amble around on his finger while she studies him.
Holding it up to the light, all serious and squinting,
He whispers, "They are so small."

She remembers this field for a long time.

She points to his heart. This is where I live. He looks
at her skeptically, raises an eyebrow."Is it awfully
uncomfortable there?" She lets the silence grow while
the birds make conversation and smiles to herself when
she sees him listening too.

Sometimes it is cold, but then you remember me.

There are pieces of love scattered around this world.
I have been trying to find them, trying to arrange them
into a comprehensible hope. There's the field. There's the
beach. There's the little stream that carries us where we
need to go. There's you, in that one summer.

It's been so long, but I remember. I remember it perfectly.

She's making a daisy chain while he looks out over the
lake. Climb the tree for me. I want to see how high you
can go. Nearly breaking the branches with his weight, he
calls out, in the purest joy you've ever heard to this day.
"You should see this view!"

*I do.

I do it for you!* I wanted to scream,
I do it all for you, you *******!

But sometimes, when you knock on
wood, you find it hollow, an empty that
echoes, and even the loudest noise couldn't
wake that dormant emotion, those parts
of you that have retreated into sleep,
curling in on themselves.

I have been trying to let them
down gently, my floorboards. They keep
creaking at night, thinking you're still
tiptoeing around my house. How do I
tell them you're gone?

Easy's in ashes. I'll never have it again, and
I'm tired, of being tired, of feeling sorry
for myself, so hit me with your best shot.
Make it hurt. I am not above begging.

Sometimes I think I am not above
anything at all.

Unhealthy, sure, whatever, lock me up.
**** the lights. Set the house on fire.
I don't care anymore. Lies perpetuating
lies, lies inside lies, lies lining the inside
of your throat and pushing against the
roof of your mouth.

I made a place for myself there, you know.
I made a place for the both of us, but we
were too cowardly to live in it, too weak,
and besides, what you said about me was true.

I doubt my own doubts, far more than I doubt you.

if you're reading this, we must have made it after all.