the change you seek
is much deeper
than what you tack
onto your bedroom walls.

you're not him,
no matter how
many times you
swear you see
your reflection
in his skin.

strings have been pulled:
slow motion conversation:
because all I want to do:
is let my bones:
fit perfectly with yours.

the thought of sleep after a cold bath
is just as bad as having to listen to
your family doctor diagnose your insurance:
dying as fast as your childhood memories,
and although you've got the same blood
your grandfather, half-dead, doesn't want to know your name
and he doesn't care about the wrinkles water gives you.

he's got eyes like those charming men you see on the
t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n.
what's more:                                                            ­                
he can wink and blow kisses at the same time.

two phones
two coffee cups
one long conversation about nothing
and shared laughter over the mumbles we heard
from the downstairs neighbors when we were kids.

remember?
we'd hide in bushes with flashlights,
too afraid to move, too afraid the dark would
catch up to our short-distance legs and
our too-wide-to-see eyes.

I remember:
we'd talk into unplugged microphones
and trap ourselves by climbing fences
with stacks of rocks that we could barely lift.

one time, we found a field mouse:
he died the next morning.
the funeral was alright,
none of us cried at least.

I blame the mouse for getting caught in the heater,
we gave him a house and wrote his name on the front
so he wouldn't forget, but his mother must not have
taught him how to read English.

You told me he wouldn't be able to--
"why is it a boy? why can't it be a girl?"
--it didn't take me long to realize:

you can be whatever you want
or whoever you want,
and that if I was
(as trapped as)
that mouse,
I'd probably choose the heater too;
but I wasn't,
and I had you.

color slips from photographs
and collects in a single file line
that leads through your door frame
and into the kitchen, where
the smell of us kisses your cheeks warm.

it's not the physical communication that's wrong
it's not the knowing parts, it's the missing pieces,
or the things we succeed to keep out:
like cold air, and feelings.

at least for now.

"you're lucky."

I have no idea what I'm doing.

"no one knows."

things that are the same here:
glass and silence
nails and chalk
comfort and ***
smoke and color.

how do you feel about the women called mother,
and the children that call to her and grab at her legs?
her legs: so smooth that their hands slide down them in the summer.
her hands: cold and soft and everything you need when you're crying.

I love you, darling, and I want to hold your hands all the time,
both of them, and please press your forehead against
mine because my third eye can feel your trying to see inside
but we need to break through the skin that hides them away.
I want to teach you how to share dreams so that we don't have to
set alarms any more, or drink caffeine anymore, even if it is tea instead
of coffee. or if your favorite is the same as his and it only bothers me
because I want to stop thinking about how warm, or thick, his fur is.
I can lose my hands

inside                                                           ­        the outside
                                                         ­   
of his beautiful mass.

He can knock down trees with a whistle,
or a flick of his tail, and he can make phone calls
with one long stretch and a yawn.

there are too many pockets of air in between the fabric
of all my ***** clothes and
we can't leave our thoughts in
open spaces

like this

anymore.

it's like looking at his smile and seeing what he's trying to hide,
those things are much too personal to be slurred from one bathroom stall
to another,
you always forget about all the people who don't wash their hands until it happens right in front of you.

I keep comparing you to:
all the people from my past.
She keeps comparing you to:
all the people from your past.
I don't want to miss you:
like all of those people from her past.

She looks at you like a vacuum would
but she feels like blue skies and tastes
like creamer or hot chocolate, thick
as she is you notice how thin she is
and point it out, try and make her eat
some of what you have to say although
you really don't know what it is she
needs to hear.

"that's why they call it confusion, honey,"
I had never seen you turn to stone before,
topaz and diamonds, "but crystals have souls."
and you have no idea what I'm talking about.

he touches me like I've got band-aids all over:
careful.
he begs me not to fall in love so that he can:
misunderstood.
he doesn't know any of my secrets
and he probably never will,
no matter how many times I say them:
he doesn't understand my language.

we can stare at each other for hours:
patience.
we can sleep whenever we want:
freedom.
we can spend all the time in the world together
and keep each other warm,
but we can't shower together
or get the same invitations.

I know, it's difficult without speech,
or proper thumbs, or proper legs,
or knees or thoughts or being stuck
with lemon drop kisses that make
you want to scream they hurt so good.

I'm going to stop apologizing when my
teeth get stuck in your lips, and I'm going
to start drinking more, but only from the left side,
and the next time I look down at what you're doing
I'll just let you keep doing it.

She talks like she knows a leprechaun
that blows bubbles
and cuts his toe nails in the cheese
whenever you leave the
refrigerator closed long enough.

He talks like he wants to know what she's thinking
but the sounds that come out are from a bad relationship
that she's over and he tries to paint it in the air
but the trails are more like explosions and
his hair is too clean for it to be his.


She looks like wet pictures on the roof
held by at least four inches of melting snow
that she can't touch with her bare skin
because she knows how easily things can change.

He looks like he wants to kiss her
but he knows it will ruin her lip stick.