swish, swash
under a blue moon
you, in your chariot, racing north
on Highway 1

while I look for footprints
in the sand--five toed tracks to prove
you were here with me

swish, swash, sea songs
replacing your voice, like I had any choice
but goodbye

after your confession,
and your appeal for absolution,
on the same shore we first lay,
naked

and walked until the sun rose
above the silent cliffs--the same bluffs
you climbed now to be with him

would you two also tread a beach
and marvel at weather worn gems, the purple waves'
evidence time smooths and soothes all things

I don't believe it
even as I find and finger new green and amber shapes
on this eternal stretch of sand

sometimes words are so unbelievably, inexplicably, incomprehensibly, beautiful.
they can sweep you up off of your feet with their hope, and spin you around in circles with their wonder as you grin at of all the blurred colors around you.
sometimes they can be the only way you make it through the night,
sometimes they can make you fall in the deep-sea-diving type of love that'll make you never want to come up for air,
sometimes they paint pictures prettier than the most stunning sunset.

but on days like today,
the words that bounce around in my head spoken from angry mouths and a tired brain,
all of these words might just be the death of me.

She wants to fall in love,
but not with someone, no.
She wraps her arms around her body,
buries her face in her sleeves.
She smells like citrus;
she used too much soap.

She wants to love her throat
and her thighs
and her knees
and her mouth.

She gasps and sighs and screams sometimes
and spit oozes from between her lips.
She tried to ***** into the bushes
but as soon as she felt her stomach heave,
she gave up.

She wants to love her toes
and her collarbones
and her elbows
and her wrists.

A history book made her cry today,
and so did chocolate chip cookies.
She sweat and sweat
and scraped her hands
and her shower water was too cold.

She wants to love her calves
and her nose
and her spine
and her hips.

She hates the feeling of gagging
and she's afraid of pain
but not blood.
Her hair is all damp
and she chews on her cheeks.

She wants to love her voice
and her ribs
and her teeth
and her palms.

She likes a boy she shouldn't
and she wants to write poems on his skin,
but she has a math test on Wednesday
and that will hurt worse.

She wants to love her cheekbones
and her shoulders
and her jaw
and her stomach.

She really wants to love herself,
she really, really does.
I just don't think that she tries
very hard.

You've ruined blue eyes,

For when I gaze into his,

I'm still seeing you.