am I even supposed to be in love you? your thick horn-rimmed frames and curly hair never cease to leave my brain and remains engrained in my thoughts from when I first wake up, to bus rides on my way to school, coffee in the foggy afternoons, and when I lie awake at night staring at the artificial stars spread out on my ceiling. I miss you so much and I am not sure why we had never spoken before you moved but maybe it was fate that led me to finding you through the internet and let us become lovers in such a modern age. it’s easier now with our computers and iPhones yet I know that we both still crave romantic letters in swirly handwriting or ten paged typewritten letters from across the country in the back seat of a bright mustard, gypsy caravan with a peace sign engraved onto the license plate. I wish you could just easily come back instead of having to wait for opportunities to visit during school breaks, since we are constantly in town when the other is not. do you still write passages about your childhood memories and about “love” because they were equally as beautiful if not equally true. what are you thinking about when you are passing through the golden gate bridge as the window is halfway open and a vampire weekend song echoes through the car, mixing in with the sounds of the sea? do you still hold your breath in the old rainbow tunnel we used to make wishes in? or do you not even bother to try. I hope we can make things work since this love is anything but unrequited, and I am craving your freckles more than anything in the world. no, maybe even more than anything in the universe. I am going nowhere soon so come back whenever you would like before time runs out and we head our separate ways. please, for your name is starting to appear in my notebook too many times and I am madly in love with the idea of being with you, even if for only one day.

Lying on the arch of grass with our heads upside down
without a care in the world, even though students
surrounded us on the wide campus after class.

My ocean blue messenger bag with mustard lined
straps and your grey backpack rested underneath
us as we watched the trees spin overhead.

Our other friends did not care to join for they were
afraid to embark into the unknown, but we knew
there was more to life than hiding out on the sidelines.

There was more to life than just simply being there, and
we had to create in order to destroy, which is why we
wrote and drew messages to another void of our dearest
feelings and thoughts of elevated happiness and desolate sorrow.

“boris…boris”
you called out on the
verge of throwing up,
glasses smudged and
a nasty headache, you
wondered about what had
happened last night.

your lips tasted of rust
and copper, worthless
pennies without a cause.
your shirt tucked inside out,
you stumbled as you tried to stand up.

he puts a finger to your lips reassuring
you that everything was fine, as
he slipped out the back door, leaving
you alone in an air conditioned hum.

he was the only person you
entrusted, yet you didn’t have a clue.
your golden friend was long gone
from your mind, but there were still
faint glimpses of that old, familiar
world of saturday outings and vinyl
records scattered across the room.

Faint laughter haunted me as the soldiers were all replaced with traces of turpentine reeking from their veins. I stopped to look, but what was there to see? Everything was long gone, and I let it happen on my own.
The bird does not need a bigger cage, for sometimes it’s best to have never been born at all.

Oh how I used to dream of greater worlds and unreachable voids.
I used to pretend to ignore you in the hallways to fulfill
my inexplicable, over-the-top fantasies of finally leaving this
awful, monochromatic town full of secrets, truths, and lies.
I knew better yet still told dozens and dozens of tales that I, myself,
wanted to hear. I thought if I said it enough, one day I would soon
believe myself and my what-ifs of curiosity and greater days.
Plants start as seeds though, and bloom and then one day just
stop growing, and existing, and leave without a story to tell
the world. I would rather die unbloomed than turn bitter and jaded
like the rest, but when all of your petals are left for the flames to
consume, nothing seems to comfort you anymore. Nothing is left
in the world, and all of the bells have stopped ringing and the choir
finished singing, and you are left in your own desolation with no hand to hold.
The typewriter has solely come to a pause and the tape remains needing to be unwound.

There are higher rooftops behind the fire escape
        if you would only take my hand.
The constant fear of losing sight of the stars
is apparent, yet the sun still welcomes your
       cherry lipped, delicate, pale face.
The wind whispers in your ear,
       secrets you haven’t thought about for years.
There are back roads and alley ways
       if you still want to find a home,
but sometimes being alone is enough,
       in your solitary complacency
may the moon shine as bright as your eyes.

a mini moleskine notebook lays in the
pocket of my bright yellow raincoat
binoculars in hand, I seek out your face
amidst the crashing tundra waves.
you call out my name just as the fog
horn blows, I stop to smile, and continue
to watch the goldfinches zoom out of
sight into the grey vast sea of everlasting
winter solemnity.

I think about the days that should have come
as puffins nestle in cozy branches hiding
away from the bitter cold, as you and me
are left outside, bare.
skipping rocks has become such a bore
if I am not able to do it with you.
the touch of your delicate lips as
we swooned in the moonlight to
french jazz and the fishing knots that
would come undone no matter how many
times we tried to go ashore in that rusty
old boat, both dressed as sailors.

I’m content here in solitude away from the
ambiguous world, in our own making,
hidden from reality.
in our own frost-ridden snow globe,
if you must. lost in time, stepping
to our transient melody.