every night my heart breaks
as i lay this new day to rest
and with it,
this new her—
new
for a moment and gone
in an instant

i remember when it was us
and life moved through me
into her,
and the portal into other realms was
open
as synapses fired and gathered
her soul
and now—

she belongs to the world
as much as i do;
the trees,
the oceans,
the embers,
the wind—

I dreamt we were in bed
Your arm draped lazily over me
tangerine glow dripping
down your velvet face. You marveled
at the earth-shattering gravity
of our coming moments, subtle smile brightening
your sleepy eyes, "how did we get here?"

          how did i get here?

In dreams, you're all of it,
all of yourself, the best parts
of me, everything
that made me clutter past
lovers into this small space
in my heart.
In dreams, you're everything
I've ever loved about everyone
I've missed— the Frankenstein
father my daughter will never have—
          But you're not real,
You only exist in the perfect space my brain's created
out of the fragments you left.

Maybe in a way, I loved you— absent from eternity;
out of gratitude for opening
my heart to the idea of love
with anyone who saw me
enough to feel it— Gratitude

for allowing me to love
myself candidly
in my revival.

I hold space for that

I still live in your shadow in some ways,
creeping through
the memories this town has
of you,
leaving my own behind
in my imminent departure.

I'll never be absent of you
I'll never be absent of you

i anticipate a life long enough to see
the gentle withering of
my face in the mirror;
skin turning papery and thin,
hair flowing, silver silk—
for each wrinkle to hold a memory,
my body bowing to gravity, awaiting
peace with the earth.
this will be my prime
when i’ve loved fully,
lived kindly,
when i sing wisdom from my heart, and
my body is soft, delicate,
          just right for long hugs,
when my home is warm and full of tenderness
and swells with the laughter of the family i’ve collected
along the way—
mellow evenings around the hearth
reminiscing,
sweet cakes and tea—
love and softness—
days and days of stories unraveling like string
and weaving back together into the tapestry
of my life

The story of two people,
sitting in the gentle night.
They hold their hands
without impatient fear.
Maybe this is true intimacy?

Too many plans, too many
subtle strategies
in the hiding place—
everything to avoid
the pain after.

Longing for what could be,
we say goodbye
to the now,
that leaves so quickly.

Between words,
taming the common confusion,
we will never come any closer
to another human being.

Celebrating the quiet feeling
of comprehension,
absorbed by the paradox of facts—
above differences, imposed tattoos.

We are sitting in the deep,
friendly night,
holding entwined hands
with an ephemeral moment
of fulfilled, trusting intimacy.

Two winters ago I would chain-smoke spirits on my way to work in the early mornings;
windows down, blueish fingertips,
driving through the gunks into the sunrise, Leonard Cohen on repeat—
            I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
I would drive home much the same way, sometimes going the long way
to catch the sunset;
my sunless days, nestled between 4 stiff walls
The world was grey;
            grey pavement
            grey skies
            grey walls
            grey smoke
It must be this way forever, I thought.
that February was the coldest month I remember being alive—

This year the windows are up, the sun is bright, I keep my car
warm.
In the passenger seat;
a bag of sweet sesame rice crackers, an apple, lime seltzer, a little jacket, my journal, tiny socks—
I reach my hand in the backseat
when Winona cries,
let her wrap her tiny fingers
around my thumb, "I'm here,
sweet girl"
I pull into a park on
the river— we get out
            watch the trees
            sway, the breeze
paints our faces rose, we
orient ourselves in this
big, unfamiliar
world. she reaches her hand
out as if to grab the falling leaves, a
wonderous look on her soft face—
she smiles,
she touches my face,
just months old and she knows
            my voice
she knows
            my safety—
for a moment,
            nothing else exists,
            the world doesn't know
            we're here—
for a moment, it's just us,
            like it was in that hospital room
            not too long ago
for a moment, there is
            peace—

I wonder if I'll remember this
in 60 years,
when both our hands
will have wrinkled, mine more
than hers; when crows' feet
ordain our eyes;
when I've lived my life, and she's
well into hers. I know
she won't remember,
I hope I do—