I want to dream the dreams
that you have dreamt
and chase you through
your nightmares,
on bare feet,
through darkness and the forest of your memories.

(When I am close enough
I will catch your hand
in mine
and gently remind you
that soon
you will wake up

next to me.)

i guess
i will never understand
how such a beautiful boy
could be fooled into thinking
he deserves less than
perfection

I have been in love with you since the moment
I realized we could sit in silence and eat a meal

Neither struggled for words or reason.

We just,
Sat alone in a booth, together.

My hand bumping yours , my eyes
Are locked on the freckle on your neck,





Loving you, loving her, while she loves him and
We sit in this triangle wishing for someone else.




Please hold my hand, like the nights we walk together late at night,
Those fleeting moments when I’m the girl you love.
Before you throw our feelings back into the dark.



Darling, I will always love those moments

When you’re body stopped me from

rolling out of bed.

And I wake up in the morning to your imprint in the sheets.

No one told me
so i'm telling you
i expected grief to feel like sadness
but i wasnt told that
that it makes your whole body ache from morning until night
and even in your sleep
and that it makes your hands sting from numbness
making buttoning your jeans impossible
and that some days clumps of your hair fall out
but having a good hair day is the least of your worries
and morbid thoughts attack like being ***** slapped upside your head
hurting so bad you actually pass out in mid sen--
But it's nothing like the sadness i had expected to feel
i've known clinical depression since age 4
and that feeling of curling up in the fetal position
waving the white flag of surrender
trying to make yourself into the tiniest ball of nothing
But grief is a flammable substance
and you can feel it as it ignites the flame of your soul
it feels like being angry in a righteous way
like when jesus knocked over the flea market vendor's tables at the temple
like being so ******* at all of the scales that are inbalanced
and it is the fuel that makes you want to correct the injustices of the world
and become larger than you are
and shower love compassion and truth over evil
no one told me that grief feels like this
so i'm telling you

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.