things i have begun to remember:

the last time i stood in full sunlight
i felt like i was drowning

the last time i swam upwards
i broke the rough surface, gasping for air
and you were there

i have not met your eyes
in a year and a half
at least, not in person
and this brings me to my knees
and in my head, i hear you
saying drink

the last time i stood in full sunlight
i was drunk and drowning in you

vim and vigor
**** and vinegar
stale old sayings that still ring true
and i'm people-watching again
putting words to their steps
pulling phrases from the books i read
when i was a child
and dressing them up like dolls
in their own descriptions

some game, i think to myself
as the lines drift round their heads
like prickly crowns
we define ourselves with these words
with things unthinkingly said
and we wear them
like capes or like armour
like medals or like long baggy sweaters
displaying or betraying
the true poetry inside

i'm people-watching again
noticing how we take these words and use them
to excuse ourselves, to explain ourselves
to take the disdain and refrain from believing
our own homegrown lines
for some reason, the words that come
from other mouths
are the ones we take as truth

vim and vigor
now that's a compliment
**** and vinegar
take that with a grain of salt
by default, your own voice comes first
so describe yourself wisely

i'm people-watching again
shielding myself from the poetry of it all

How am I supposed to sleep
knowing you’re awake?

I’ll just sit here, thinking long thoughts
and writing short things,

keeping active, as my brain runs
out of ideas, out of letters

and a song from yesterday, today
plays in my head, lending rhythm to my words.

How am I supposed to hear that verse
without singing along?

I’ll just sit here, tapping my fingers
on the crumpled sheets.

I’ll just sit here, marking paper
with cheap ink and easy lines

and tonight, my writing finds itself
alone again, while I sit

knowing you’re awake.
I’ll write my way to morning,

find a path among the short things I’ve written
til I can say “goodnight.”

at first, you sat in my heart
in your own little rocking chair
and it was like you had always been there
but then
(and here comes the metaphor)
you sat on my heart
and if that wasn't bad enough
you stood up and grabbed it
fingers digging in
and stuffed it in your pocket
chair under one arm
and walked away
leaving me, like
hey

things i have come to realize:

i have not lit a candle in a very long time
and i miss that real flame

i have not gone a day without music
since the last time life was silent
i was afraid

i have not heard your voice
in a year and a half
at least, not in person
and this strikes me to the ground
and in my head, i hear you
yell timber

i have not lit a candle in a very long time
not since the last time i got burned

2:50 a.m. and the words just flow
crookedly, but at least they're there
and i bow down to the darkness
for giving me some semblance
of light
in the form of letters, perhaps
but still, something shines
at this time of the night
or the morning, the power
of being there when the numbers change
it feels like control
2:52 a.m. and the words just dance
and i am a puppeteer

the floor is cold, and its comfort
seeps upwards into the soles
of my feet, magnetized
and so i am forced to stay awake
my fingers are working on their own
and i'm not sure what my mind is doing
but i know my heart is beating
out a pattern
of slow, confused wonder
at how late it is
and i write things like
i look out the window, and the snow
reflects onto the sky
and the stars look down
and the trees look down
and i close the blinds
nights like this, i just look for beauty
and i stay up, erasing youth from my face
in an effort to find the knowledge
that will allow me to say i have lived
and i write things like
i want to open the window
and jump, land lightly
onto the frozen cement
and explore the street
see if it's any different
at this hour, when the beautiful
navy blue, pinstriped with black
has settled upon us
will it be beautiful?
nights like this, i need that feeling
and i try my hardest
to be poetic