"Poetry is not an opinion. It is a song that rises from a bleeding wound or a smiling mouth." ~Kahlil Gibran, Sand and Foam

I

I’m so embarrassed to tell you this, but well…

You do this one thing that drives me absolutely wild.
You wore your shirt to that thing yesterday.
You know, the one with the pearl buttons.

And you had the first two buttons undone.
And I could see this bit of your chest.
And I just wanted to touch you so badly.

But then you told me how "hot" the girls in the yard were.
And then you’re just not for me.
Because no one is, it seems.

II

The air’s too heavy.
It’s cream and the sky is too.
Skim.
Skimming through the grass.

III

I’m so embarrassed to tell you this, but it’s…

A bit of you that I thought I knew.
A splash of your skin that I know would perfectly fit my hand.
A triangle of tan and tangle.

IV

I’m under the moon right now
And sleep should be in the door any minute now.
What did you say to me earlier?
When you were speaking to me for seven minutes,
Seven minutes under the red lights,
But I can’t think that means anything.
No matter how much it should.

V

I’m a little ashamed to tell you this, but when I was little…

Everything was smaller.
The world accustomed itself to me
And I ate it up as though it were real.

But I’m not sure anymore.
Not about anything.
Not even myself.

I was playing checkers for the first ten years of knowing you.
And you reached across the table, took my hand.
Told me we were playing cards.

VI

A bit of a weird metaphor, but…
Days fall off the calendar like apples.
Meaning comes in boxes now.

Boxes of light.
Boxes of ***.
Boxes of music.
Boxes of things that aren’t funny anymore.

And I shouldn't have to leave myself closed.

VII

I’m a little curious why you want to know this…

Yes, I love you.
I love everything about you.
I love every you that there has ever been.
And every you there ever will be.

The very possibility of seeing you in that chair is a miracle.
I hope you are around in the future,
So I can not tell you these things.

VIII

I’m pretty sure he’s music.

IX

I’m sure you’ve heard this but…
The night is for us.
The trees expect activity.
The distances serene and slightly buzzed.

She was so short when I met her,
I could see you over her head.
All amber and slightly buzzed.

X

What in the hell is wrong with me!?
Throwing away my life and energies on you…
Unlike people that actually feel the acuities of time,
I glass feeble ******* worm straight through the walls.
I don’t deserve the power of speech,
Because I only use it in one-way liaisons with you!

And you can’t appreciate me,
Because you’re too ******* straight.

XI

I’m a little embarrassed to say this, but…

I moved a hand in your direction the other day
And I think you looked at it.
But you didn’t look at me.

I think you made eye contact deliberately with me today,
But there was nothing behind your pupils
But “Hey… buddy.”

Later, when I pick up my arm
I can only really focus
Really, really focus
On the divots cut into my arm
By the picnic table.

XII*

But the summer is folding itself away,
And the grass starts to move without a thought.
Not about me, not about any of us.

When the heat inside the clock face presses down enough,
It might run a bit faster,
But it won’t ever admit to what it’s done to me.
And understand why he should be so embarrassed.

christ.