A little green dot means so much more
than the fact that you are online.

It brings back our first conversations,
hours of struggling to type each word
but I fought my broken phone anyway
and you waited patiently.

We would sit at work and talk
send gifs of **** and ache,
yearn to see each other again
and we couldn't wait.

You stripped me of every defense,
and most of my clothes, so quickly
I didn't have time to think not to
and I'm glad I didn't.

I never sat and talked to someone,
touched someone in simple ways,
become so familiar with them
and I got afraid.

I see that green dot and I want,
want to send you ***** pics,
want to apologize, want to cry,
want to just talk again.

I see that green dot by your name,
and yes, I think of that short period
of something never meant to be,
but only because a fresh wound stings.

I see that green dot and I want,
I want to feel that way again.
But it won't be with you.
And I'm okay with that.

Mostly

Eyes stare out
but they don't see
a cat crossing the street.
Bass drums thunder
inside headphones
but she doesn't hear.
Her heart static
as a message appears
sweet words and thoughts.
A fly hovers near
swat, swat, swat
it won't go away.

Like the tears.

A constant reminder
that she is dying on the inside.

Her red dress frayed at the edges
like her nerves
her fingers tapped a lost beat
don't sweat it
but her fingers touched glistening drops of
liquid courage
borrowed like the lipstick staining the rim
keep a lid on it
heels loud against cement, echoing a rhythm
like rehearsed lines
the memories of which followed her coffee
and spilled
words eloquently falling in place, settling
like sugar on the bottom
hands stilled by their sweet murmurs
of her acceptance.

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An ****** vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies
(Her casement open to the skies)
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right—
This window open to the night!
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice-drop—
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully—so fearfully—
Above the closed and fringed lid
’Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all-solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep;
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold—
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals—
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood many an idle stone—
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Like an OCD psychologist,
I analyzed my behavior
breaking everything down
digging to the roots
the core emotions that I felt:
insecurity, fear of being hurt.

I laid out the physical and verbal
dialogue of my body and words,
highlighting those that reflected
that pain and turmoil inside.

If insecurity was blue and fear
of being hurt purple, well...
that hidden dialogue was striped
much like the Cheshire cat
invisible behind a nodding head,
wide grin and endless laughter.

If you studied your own actions
studying every move like a
hunter on the prowl, patient
what would be your true colors?

Two inches of snow, untrodden
boots digging in, holding on
but when they hit traveled roads
slip

Paths dotted with the footprints
one set, two sets, three sets
four, with all the more to
slide

When the snow is so shallow,
the path less traveled is safer.
And so it reminds me too of
life

The wooden pulpit split
cracked like thunder
and from its splinters
came life, green and flowing
vines that slithered and twined
their bodies from pulpit to pew
and from it burst roses
every color of a sunset
except those holding together
the pulpit she stood behind
those were white as the moon.