i had visions of a girl with brown
hair - her - eyes
lit up my soul, her
mouth was like a womb
her mouth was a womb for words
that gave life to chaos - her
hands were delicate like
a white napkin or a bird's perched
on an electrical wire - i hear
her speak when i look at the clock

what’s your favorite kind of flower?
mine’s a forget-me-not,
a fear settled deep in my chest
that remembering me might
not be for the best,
a knot in my stomach formed
from your stormcloud eyes
like summer skies.
like forget-me-nots.
loyalty and long-lasting
and pleading to remember me, forgetting.
december makes me forget sunny weather.
i think i’m kind of
in love with the sound of your voice,
and your smile,
which is dangerous because smiles
are always going to be the
worst kind of weakness.
i hope they don’t forget me.
i hope you don’t forget me.
i’ll send you bouquets of words i never said
of texts i never sent:
yellow acacias and yellow tulips and blue forget-me-nots
(secret and hopeless and true loves);
angelica and amethyst and flowering almond
(inspiration and admiration and hope);
red columbine because you
leave me anxious, trembling;
white camellia japonica because
your loveliness
is perfected.
send me red carnations
(yes and yes and yes)
with unwritten handwritten answers
(yes and yes and yes).

Open your eyes
look at the ceiling,
okay just see it.
Walk outside and watch the sky
how it exists for you.
Honestly life is just about existing.
Put your toes in the scratchy grass,
think of all the bugs that might be underneath you,
they are just existing.
Watch as the flowers dance in the wind
they are performing for you.
The world is on your side.
Society is not,
but the world is.
put down the magazine
put down the phone
put down the calorie tracker
put down the social media.
lets go outside so that we can breathe
so that we can just simply exist.

The rain makes me ache with memories
Black coffee, your books, and my singing
You were something borrowed
I was something blue
Honestly, the rain reminds me of you

In spring I drank mostly wine
Listened to Buckley all the time
Constantly pestered you with the knowledge I held
Of a poet that was six feet under and very pale

But you'd listen

And in a sweeping moment I knew
There may never be a love like you
Your art spoke of this type of entanglement
And it seemed by the pictures it strangles quick

Yet, the world felt softer now I think it through
Because I'd rather go back than sit here and brew
This coffee taste black, cold, and shrew
This isn't what reminds me of you