"Why can't you just ******* tell me what you're thinking?"*

daffodils, painted glass, frost bite,*                                           you.
split ends, comforters, paint fumes, phone calls, spring time,         you.
knee highs, cigarettes, car rides, missed texts, hang overs, slip knots,   you.
school books, friendship, roof tops, chipped teeth, hang nails, snow shoes,   you.
pinky promise, treasure maps, lipstick, hopscotch, pudding pie, porch swings,     you.

She places her book, marked with
a coupon I've been meaning to use,
on the nightstand. She turns the light
out on her side. It's her side, her light.
The left side is mine.

Night.

Night.

We're past clutching love. We're
not married, but I think I know
what it means. It's two lonely
people; it's two sides of the bed.
It doesn't take her long to fall asleep.
I watch her forehead unwrinkle.
I listen as her inhales and exhales
become spaced and even. At this moment,
I do not know her. She's not a woman.
All the inviting curves collapse. She is
a girl breathing in, breathing out.

In a memory she related to me--I think
she related to me--she asks a boy to give her
a turn on a swing. It's toward the end of recess.
She has waited. He says no. This is my swing.
She says it is the school's. He says the school
isn't sitting in it. I can almost remember why
she told me this story or some story like it.

I can't sleep without my fan on. She can't
fall asleep with it. I'll give her a couple more
minutes. I wonder what violence she dreams
of, of what forbidden ecstasy she views in
her private night. I do not know her. She
looks vulnerable, her body now bent in an S shape,
facing away from me. Am I scared for her? Of her?
Still sleeping, she bunches up her comforter;
she brings it to her face. Maybe that's marriage: being
scared for and of.

I turn on the fan. She stirs.

I'm sorry. I'll turn it off.

You can leave it on.

I'll turn it off.

Leave it.

She pulls my arm under her neck.
She brings her bottom against my thighs.

Will you hold me? Just for a second.

I can hold you longer.

Just a second.

your sadness is not
beautiful, but your
scars are gorgeous

they are epics across
your skin that tell the
story of how you, just like
all great heroes,
survived

I saw you today
Wearing your school uniform
You saw me and called me
I came to you
You just smiled
At school you said goodbye
You left me again
And so I waited
Later you arrived
But it seemed like destiny
Was bound to separate us
Because you went away
With somebody I know
It has been like that
For years, and years to come
You come, you go
You smile
Sometimes you would frown
I would watch you go home
You don’t even say goodbye
You can’t even say Thank You
But it’s alright
There are still many others out there
Waiting for me
People like you who need me
I know your name
Your friend’s name
Your favorite color
I know what scent you wear
The way you comb your hair
The way you walk
And talk
But then I know
That I need you and you need me
Always crossing roads
Hoping you’d call me again
Hoping that one day you’d smile
That one day you would know my name too
Though that chance may be vague
For our ways are different
And you might not care at all
I’m always here waiting
And still I am hoping
That one day you would appreciate my existence
As a mere pedicab driver.