There's a pause,
and a tilt of the head,
a smile instead
of a word.
There's a pause,

a catch in time,
less than a second of silence
during which an eternity appears
and disappears
at light speed.
It's swallowed up
in the space between our eyes,

in the slow blink of weary lids
and the sullen turn of my head,
unwilling to part with this moment.
It's swallowed up
by my hand, clenched tight
to prevent it
from reaching out;
instead, I have grabbed this eternity
and silenced it,

curled my fingers around the soft shape
and stuffed it,
only slightly bent,
into my pocket.

Just now, I took it out
and tried to straighten the edges,
tried to get a clear picture.

I'm almost there,
almost back in that eternity,
almost willing to give it a try.
I'm almost there,
too soon it seems,
almost ready to jump,
to release

my breath,
form words,
unfurl pages of this
into the air.
But I know myself too well;
I will always be
almost ready.
Even though it feels
like more

when I'm with you.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs
and goosebumps raining from my arms
while warmth spreads through my body,
shedding the chill
as if by magic.

Silk and buttons and pretend lace,
cheap boots,
expensive lipstick,
a night out
with confidence by my side.
There's a laugh here too;
it keeps echoing across the bare valleys of my collarbones
and finding its way to my ears.
I resist the urge to turn and share.
Instead,
I smile, taking half-part,
saving a few for a rainier,
colder day.

A shoulder bump,
warm skin brushing against thin cloth,
pulling away from the wrong
and inventing the right;
stepping to the left
and creating space,
solidifying the distance.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs,
holding onto my skirt
and letting that chill back in,
discarding the easy warmth.
I walk forward,
giving it up,
giving it away,
shedding the feeling,
shedding the idea of it
as if by magic.

Fishnets,
holes,
spaces,
filled

by warm magic.

I am not going to share this with you.
Never
going to speak aloud,
only write
and write
and write.
I will share it with the world,
handwriting in print,
stamped with my heart,
authentic.
I will share those thoughts,
the ones you turned away from,
the ones that maybe
just maybe
just maybe-

I will share the events,
every moment
or silent step
or loud heartbeat
or quiet answer
or scripted scene
or word worth recording,
though there isn't much to tell.
Still, I want to know;
can you hear me?
I'm just wondering
where you are,
what you say
when you hear my name,
what you hear
when I write these words.
Tapping,
scrolling;
I imagine your fingers
pausing and tracing
the glowing lines
and the stupid hopes
poured into these pieces.
Pieces,
small,
unique,
alone.
I'm done with this.
Whether or not
your eyes chance upon
a memory or two,
who cares?
It's all gone now,
flowed from my fingertips forth onto the paper
a while ago;
this, now,
this is the very
last
drop.

There is a lesson
among the others
that I have failed to learn.
A mother's wail,
a child's cry,
the tortured sighs
and lonely eyes-
these signs,
these misgivings,
these misguided reasons
become lost on me.
It's the pain,
the uncultured beginnings
of a slowly spreading weight
that I fail to see
in full colour.
I look to the sky
at the words;
tell me it's raining
and I will believe you,
but the water will not touch me.
I look up,
searching
for the tears among raindrops,
the carbon
among the breathable air,
looking for the cats-
looking for the dogs-
but finding only a beautiful rain.
And ashamed
for not understanding
the pain that it takes
to be like the people I see,
sitting at the window
just like me,
but whose blank stares
and sighs
mirror nothing
inside my own soul.
I have wished to feel that pain,
if only for a day,
just to understand
the way it takes hold.
I have searched
for that sincerity,
and found only the clarity
of somebody who skips through life
making eye contact easily.
But sometimes,
instead,
I look down at the ground,
trying to find what they search so hard for;
trying to pick it up again
and lift it towards the sky.
I don't need a reason why
I just do.

I have no
rhythm & rhyme,
can’t walk in time
to anything,
can’t speak my mind,
I’m hard to find,
my face is lined
with crooked vines
that tell
a story
without rhythm & rhyme.
Without structure or meter,
my thoughts peter out
halfway through
before you can catch them.
Internal rhyme,
external rhythm,
&
you can find
my soul along with them.
I try to lie
without getting caught
but I cannot pretend
to be something I’m not.
I can’t stay
in time,
in rhythm & rhyme,
in place
& in line
long enough.
& I apologize
for my transparent lies,
but hey,
at least I tried.

You
do not rhyme
with me,
and I can see that.
-even from here-
One day I passed you
-or you
passed me-
but only I know
that you did not see
me
-only I know
the difference-
you looked
but did not see.
We do not rhyme,
-you and me-
together
we make
-dissonant-
harmony,
we make
-useless-
eye contact;
we do not
-wish we could-
rhyme,
you and I.
One day I saw you
-not just looked
but saw-
and
it scared me,
the
-obvious-
thoughts
in your head,
the
-unrhyming-
poetry
written on your face,
the
-unfailing-
-unwavering-
-unrelenting-
-untamed-
knowle­dge
that side
-by-
side,
we do not rhyme.
And so I wrote
-one day-
-one afternoon-
a ballad
for you and me.
It doesn’t rhyme.
It can’t be put to music.
It can’t be
what you might expect,
-never-
but
this is how I am.
Unrhyming.
-sorry-

Dancing slowly,
tracing
circles
across the endless fields,

we dance

an endless pattern across the skies,
dancing with the wolves and

Dancing

Dancing slowly

we dance
an intricate drawing
in the clouds,

dancing with the wolves

to the tune of the birds' flight
and the light
from the moon.

We ignore

the turning of the earth,
pay no attention
to the cycles
that confine us

We just keep on dancing

with those howling creatures

rearing up
like they do
and singing to the sky.