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.

fear
of being opened like a book
free and clear
shuffling pages
easily dog-eared and torn

fear
of being wrong
or of being too right
and so i keep my mouth closed
when i think it might matter

fear
of eye contact
this stopwatch somewhere within my soul
tells me when to look away
so i can never give too much
of myself
and never know too much either

fear
of displaying emotion
so generically poetic, this idea
of holding it in
but i fear letting it out
before knowing what it is
and being a young, confused wanderer
i keep these fears to myself, waiting
until i know what they mean

fear
of never finding out

want

to touch something,
anything.
to feel surface, electricity,
rough, smooth, endless,
anything.
to be somewhere,
outside or inside,
somewhere with light.
to feel a knee touching mine,
to feel the movement
of somebody else's breath.
to connect,
eye to eye
and palm to palm.

need

to be there now,
in contact with clothing
or skin
or both,
to be moving in time with the rest of the world.
to feel a knee touching mine
and staying there,
to have heat pass through space
and join us.
to connect,
eye to eye
and soul to soul
and palm to palm.

reality*

i am floating

Before you fall in love,
you think you want it
and you let that want
put you to sleep at night
like a lullaby.
When you're in love,
you think you understand it,
bathing in the dangerous comfort
that keeps you up at night
like a fast-paced song
or an off-colour thought.
But when you've let love run its course,
no remorse,
low pain, high tolerance
and closure
that settles into your skull
like fine, wise dust-
then, you actually understand love,
you get it now,
and the colours painting the world around you
move in different strokes,
some cynical, but now you know
that nothing will ever be as clear, or
as clean
as that first time,
and that some bittersweet
is okay when it comes to memory-
you're done with clean, now it's time
for gloriously, beautifully *****.

oh my goodness, this man's hands
are beautifully sad, all thin
and winding themselves into the fence
as he waits for the train
and then he turns, cigarette clenched
between thin lips
and scowls in my direction
and suddenly, those hands
are foul and *****,
becoming part of the chain-link metaphor
for loneliness
all i can think today is
wow, people ****

i inspected the sidewalk
for cracks, no backs broken
today, i told myself
everything will be perfect
and smooth
in comic-book square scenes
and everything will be grey
i collected that lack of colour
round my shoulders
and i stepped forward
onto the cement, feet planted
on that cold new ground
and the lesser shades
of black and white
curled themselves around my ankles
lending weight to my step
and i felt safe
i saw your face
in comic-strip polka-dots
of pink and green
and you were simply coloured in
all thick black lines
and strong hand gestures
and warm support around my waist
pages turning at a steady pace
and the racing of my heart
felt right
and i thought to myself
in comic-book lettering
in thought bubbles above my head
in a confident narration
in a whispered, private thought
that
i can see myself using you
as an excuse
for a little while

these lights are fluorescent
or something along those lines
i am not a scientist
but the point is
these lights bring an atmosphere
to the cement tunnels
that can only be described as harsh
and here i sit
soft and warm under the cold beams
feeling all too human
and yet not real enough
as the tips of my toes wriggle
trying to escape the cage of my shoe
and my fingers are typing out words
that have nothing to do with anything
except my inner monologue
which has been externalized
into poetry
and now it is my shield
saying
see? i have feelings
proving that
i am not as cold as these unwavering lights
there is real fire
somewhere within me
and i conduct experiment after experiment
trying to find that spark
and all i end up with
is poetry, pooling navy blue in my cupped palms
as a reminder to myself that
somewhere
deep inside the jail cell
that my ribs create
there might still be a heart
and it might still play some small part
in my life

does it make me weird
if i’m still thinking about it?
i swear it’s nothing but the good;
five or so hours later and i can still feel
your hands, running smooth lines up my back
and rough ones from my hip up to my hair,
almost desperate in their attempt
to hold on.
i was there, fully aware
of you, you and your shifting footsteps,
off-balance, while i stood and tried
to keep the cold at bay-
even though my skin was chilled,
my bones were warm and stable
and i did what i could to keep us from falling,
tumbling onto the grass
although
i may have thought about
the cold ground, and considered it
as an option.
is it strange
that i am writing about this?
tell me, is it so bad that i just want
to tell someone, to explain myself, to say
that i’m still drunk,
almost six hours later now, intoxicated
with that worn-out metaphor, but it describes this
perfectly,
this weird haze of colourful clarity
that separates me, even now
from the cold, dark wind.
i feel drunk, and i’ve felt it before
and i know that when i wake up tomorrow
there will be no headache, no regret
only a small, knowing smile on my face
as i get up, get dressed
and shove my hands in my pockets, fingers crossed
that you and i will go drinking again today.

the snow outside has become part of the cement
and everywhere there are lights
extinguished, renewed
and all i can think about
is the countdown in my mind, repeating
regrets, forming thoughts, and i think
next year, i would like to learn
how to step in time with the music
that plays in my head
and i would like to learn
how to turn it off
i want to breathe deeper
write more words
inhale the scent of knowledge
that i didn't know existed
and feel alone
in a different, more beautiful way
and yet here i am, sitting
with my feet magnetized to the floor
and my fingers typing, hungry
looking for more
than just the thoughts in my head
i'll think more next year, i promise
although that's an empty threat
since all i ever do is think
my point is, i'm here on my knees
with springtime pulling at my waist
summer shining down on my face
autumn leaves still in my pockets
and winter hot on my heels
kneeling down, bowed
before the end of december
saying
please, january
come save me

Well, I’m putting it off,
the part where my brain actually does something
useful
for once.
And instead I’m dwelling
on my mind,
in my mind
and out of it,
twirling through each day
on a slow fade
away
from what,
I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I want,
just that moment of contact
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
and I’ll be fine.
I’m putting it off,
the part where I step down from this cloud
and step into my body.
Instead I’m dwelling on
in
above
the spaces around me,
moving through each day
on a fast train
away
from what, I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I miss,
just that uncertain rush
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
which is a funny thing to say
because I think I desire it
after all.

explain to me the difference
between open and closed
negative and positive, for i am told
that it is negative to be closed
and yet being proactive, a positive person
i am shut down, and fine with it
sometimes
i give in, and i open
some small window
every once in a while
somewhat drunk, under some influence
and i give in to the theory
the convention
that it will make me feel better to do so
so i do
and instead, i feel
different
that’s all i can say, as the breeze drifts through
the rift i have made
and the air is cold as it touches my veins
and i want to close the window again
but the glass is broken
and i will never be the same

there's nothing like being wanted
to keep your spirits up
for a day now, or more
i've been smiling, and today i found myself
noticing things that don't belong
i saw icicles under a warm sun, dripping
back down into the earth in shame
i saw a streetlamp, still lit at noon
and its light was orange and dark against the sky
but i did not see myself
turning to look at that space in between
this place and the world outside
the train window, taunting me
with an almost-reflection, my eyes hollowed out
to make room for the sunlight
and i realized
today i am noticing things that don't belong
and i belong
so i stopped looking for myself, and i was found
beneath that useless streetlamp, waiting
for the icicles to melt away
and they did, leaving me calm
and on dry ground
there's nothing like being wanted
to keep your feet moving
to keep your spirits up
to keep your eyes open
for a day now, or more
i've been smiling

as the white moon roared over the mountains
and the black sky slid down toward the sea
my silent footsteps screamed the words at me
a violent sunrise is on the way
and nature's never been
more dear to me
than now
i answered back, threw my thoughts
across the sand
and shattered them on the horizon
watched them fall among the trees near shore
and heard the roots beneath me rustle
foreign land shifted around me
and here, hours from home
i felt glorious and alone
as the blue sun rose up from the water
and the waves crashed down at my feet
and the violent sunrise was over
leaving daylight
clear skies
and me

once i was drunk for the first time
i wanted to be drunk all of the time
but thankfully
i was too broke
to be an alcoholic
that feeling didn't last long
anyways, so i guess i'm safe
got the money now to self-destruct
and yet i shy away
glad that when i felt that pull
i was too broke
to be an alcoholic

hey you
i’d just like to offer
a silent, heartfelt thank you
for a few words that struck me
down, falling through
that veil of reality
and arriving, finally
in a place where i was alive for a moment
so weird, breathless
that i actually held my hand
to my chest
if seeing is believing, then
i truly believe
that the palm of my hand
saw my heart beat, so
hey you
i’d just like to offer
the smile that cracked my jawline
wide open, i’ll hold it
in my hands, saying
hey you, look what you did
you broke me
thank you

this is what you get when you are honest
like, really honest
like, the kind of honest where it takes you an hour
to find the courage to be yourself
and have it choked back down
by your own clenching jaw, saying
stop it with that honesty, idiot
you're making a fool of yourself
if those tears let loose
your pride will trickle out with them
and we can't have that can we?
this is what you get when you are honest
no
this is what you get when you try to be honest
a reminder
that it's a virtue best left untouched
or at least framed
like a pretty picture
a painting of pride
once the acrylic has dried
(and it doesn't take long)
you'll be fine

the wind bit me, scratched at my back
as i struggled along the sidewalk
thinking
about nothing, about something
that could have been nothing
if i’d just let it be
here i am again, entangled in the bare branches
of an honest winter, a comforting cold
soft snow upon my shoulders
and i just can’t bring myself to reach up
and brush it off
here i am again, outside
despite the frostbite creeping through the sky
and the threat of colder nights
i feel warm
and i know this is the warning sign
a few days before the loss of limbs
a few weeks after i stepped out
and lost myself in the blinding white
here i am again, pulling on my gloves
laces tied, hands in pockets
prepared this time
and yet i am never ready, never fully closed
and the cold air seeps in through the seams
and into my bones
and i shiver
in a good way
letting winter bring me home

we stood there and we kissed
for a very long time
and our feet shifted
or maybe it was the earth
reminding us to breathe
either way
we were alone

and we span drunkenly
wayward, winding
in circles across the grass
then we were still
and our mouths were moving
speaking words
and spreading them through the air
whispering them
onto each other's lips

and you were late
i looked at my watch
but the countdown began at zero
so we counted like crazy
and my hands found your hips
your lazy fingers found my waist
my shoulders met your chest
and your mouth was soft
and when we stopped
we realized it was raining
and we had never noticed

string snapped, door open wide
and the night bled into our space
but the streetlamp quivered on
and i could still see your mouth
macro vision
close to mine

and i thought
i've never written
poetry about kissing before
but i think i'd like to

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

the air today was inviting
cold, it's true, but still
there was something about the way
the sunlight shone unfiltered
and fell upon the ice
that held stubbornly to the cracks in the sidewalk
something that made me think:

good things will happen today

and perhaps they did, but i am still unsure
as to whether this chill
and the fact that it no longer pervades my veins
signifies a step upwards
or a steady slide down
and as winter rolls in
on splintery, frozen wheels
i feel a crushing sense of foreboding
and i look up into the sky
so i can ignore the ground
that i might fall into, making me think:

what if nothing is what i think it is?

what if i am somewhere else?
not on this beautifully ambiguous cloud
not stepping through an open door
but out a window?
what if the things said today were heavier
more weighted
than i hoped they would be?
these words poke me, **** me
almost into submission, and you don't know it
but i am simultaneously
opening my eyes and arms to you
and crouching, shivering, shuddering
in a corner, afraid of what you think
when you look at me, and i want to know:

what do you see?

are you looking at me
through rose-coloured glasses
through a lens of colourful fall leaves
through the sun shining upon my face
in all these beautiful places
what do you see?
and i want to know:

what do you feel?

when you place your hand neatly
among the folds of my clothing
and somehow find my waist
when you duck your head down
and breathe
comfortably into the nape of my neck
when my head rests in the crook of your elbow
and i play hide-and-seek with your eyes
ashamed, but you take it as shy
i want to know:

what is this?

sand falls around my ears, sprinkled over my shoulders
an impression left as i stand
walking away from the water
walking away from the rest of the day

there are so many things to walk away from, and some days they surround me
but today they are scattered across the lake, stranded in the small waves
and i can turn my back on the shore

it's almost like they've disappeared, at least for tonight

The idea of the midnight hour
is an image,
a feeling,
a scent and a sound
that has always consumed me;
even before I could stay up this late.
And now I realize
that the midnight hour is not one,
not two hours, not three,
but the whole night,
and I am driven to defeat it
breath by breath
and minute by minute
and hour by silent, screaming hour
until the midnight train has run its course
and I roll into the station, victorious
knowing that the idea
of the midnight hour
is not an image,
a feeling,
a scent and a sound;
it's a lifetime of silence
and when it comes around
I'm afraid, but determined
to live this one out
and prove to myself that the sunshine
comes from somewhere.

Sometimes
I like to break,
pause the fighting,
sit down
and try to think my way out of this
instead.

And I realize
that's why I feel so trapped:
Because inside my head,

I am free.

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.”

it's funny, because
i found myself surprised
at the nervousness
with which i faced the coming day
strength fading, i pressed on
ashamed of each weak footstep, wondering
what i could have done
to deserve this
and your smile was imprinted
on the inside of my eyelids
and i realized, too late
that this ink was seeping into my bloodstream
and it was you all along
that was weakening me
shattering my resolve
to open the door
and say hello

I kept hearing poetry today,
and like a true critic
I skimmed the cream off the milk
and saved the best bits for later,
dismissing the rest as trivial, general
life.
I edited, cut, nip-and-tuck jobs
to the words that I found on the road,
and the ones left lying under my chair
I straightened out, ironed
until they were good as new.
I took glue to my wanton collection,
pasted together each part of each story
and tried to make the edges fit.
I kept hearing poetry today,
and this is what I made of it:

it's not so bad out there today
sit down, girl, you're gonna fall
he's wrong again, i'm tired of this
i agree with you, go for it
sometimes it's good to talk about it
well, that's messed up
here, let me help you with that
you're beautiful
a compliment always does the trick
are you ready yet?
the day is finally over, thank god

That last one was me
as the door slammed shut
and the wild poetry was left outside
to consort with the wind
and bother somebody else.

the moon
glinting
onto the once-white wing
of an airplane
now dusted with darkness
and bathed in new light

coming in for landing
under a sky full of stars

poetic, i know
but this is my arrival
and i want it to be beautiful

in truth, it's mundane
just another passenger
eyes peering out the window
feigning disinterest
after all, i've been here before

in truth, i feel empty
waiting to be filled
like the real part
the important part
will come with time
after all, i've done this before

but this time it's different
and i want it to be beautiful

the moon makes it beautiful

i have always wished to find
the word
ephemeral
and the fabric
gossamer
among true, hard life
these angelic combinations
of stupid, insipid letters
tell me, where's the magic?

If I’m not mistaken,
I saw you today,
pale but golden,
flimsy
yet rooted to where you were standing,
neck bent,
looking off into the distance.
I know I am mistaken,
seeing you today,
so many miles away from where this could be true;
but the truth is,
I keep seeing you.
Reflected in every dark head of hair,
shining through every silly, crooked smile,
every turned back
becomes your broken one,
and I am scared
every time it happens,
skirting around the corners
with my eyes trained on your shoulders,
waiting for them to
snap
and turn towards me;
scared
of how wrong I am,
to see those shoulders turn with someone else’s face
held aloft on that neck;
scared
of the strength with which I pull the door open
and escape each facsimile of you.
It’s sad, really,
I know this,
involuntarily shrugging it off,
excuses ready-made,
for I know this will fade
in time.
It always does;
the shock of a new place
makes me run back into old ways,
and soon you’ll be gone again,
no more shadowing me,
no more appearing in every face,
no more escaping
each metaphor,
each reference made;
soon you will fade
and I will move forward
into that sunset,
the one that you see when you stand like
a cowboy,
crooked,
bent,
head tilted,
eyes transfixed.
And I,
unable to help myself,
am transfixed too,
even as I move on.

all my life and all my goals
fade away
in your presence, dear doubt
i falter

all my time and my efforts
slip down from my shoulders
in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down
by the future

dear doubt
i ask you
to spare me from the harsh light
keep me in the soft dark
asleep

painted on, this mural
time and time again
referred to as history
i'll live within those lines
if only, dear doubt
you'll spare me

all my life, all my goals
all my time, all the tolls you hake taken
i have paid

all my efforts, my breath
all my cries and my threats you have taken
i have paid
time and time again

in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down by the future

in your presence, dear doubt

i falter

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.

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

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.

this was once
an empty page
i filled it
wishing all the rage
of another poet's words
upon the paper
since i have none of it

this was once
an empty page
i stole the space, stained it
with my own black-and-blue lines
like small, needlepoint bruises
saying
this will only hurt a little
but still
i'm glad it's not me bearing the burden
of all these words

this was once
an empty page
and i bow down to your strength, dear paper
for taking upon your shoulders
every scratch that i offer
every scene i remember

this was once
an empty page

i filled it
and now i am empty again

oh ****, a feeling
of foreboding, lusting after my shadow
nipping at my heels, and i hate it
i can't help but curse the ground i walk on
for showing my footprints, because now
this feeling has followed me home
**** cement, **** worn-down road
**** every hard surface
because all i want to do is lie down
mid-stride, in the middle of crossing
i just want to sleep, rip the pounding bass from my ears
and be awash with silence
except i know, logically
that i might die
would it be worth it? somehow i doubt that
but still, it's just that every time i feel this way
all i can think is
stop
drop
and roll, something is on fire
and from within the icy confines of my hard bone structure
comes a voice, saying
oh please, **** cement god
please let it be me

late night talking, but i can't tell
if i'm talking to myself
or to somebody else
and everything i say is either real
or just rhyming with reality
and to be honest
i don't know the difference anymore
i'll tell you, in words
overflowing with the truth
spilling out through the cracks of uncertainty
falling to the floor as lies
because
this is how it feels
and it feels like the only truth i've ever told
the rest is false, but at least i can tell you
that before the words left my mouth
they were flesh and ink and blood and water
alive and kicking, swimming
stabbing little things
but there's something about the night air
or the sunshine
or the real life, i don't know
whatever i'm missing, it affects them
like putting them in brackets
(emotions become afterthoughts)
like adding quotations
"this was said by someone else"
like ending the sentence
there are no more true words.

in the space of a year
i have found a lifetime, pocketed
the words of wisdom, every single one
from the sidewalk, *****
but still, i've found some use
for these single lines of poetry
did you know that
footsteps in snow will melt away
come springtime?
the cold blue sky whispered to me
letting me know that
the frozen feeling would not last forever
footsteps on my heart will eventually fade
did you know that
sunsets are not forever?
there is no permanent marker
colouring the sky in with black
the dark fades away like blue dye
in the wash, and by the morning
those old jeans will fit again
and the sun will rise
familiar and bright
and maybe this time you'll be able to raise your head
from the clouds gathered round your mind
and get out of bed
did you know that
there will always be somebody else?
i learned that arms are open
somewhere, someone is standing there
hands stretched out
just waiting for that puzzle piece to come along
in the space of a year
i have grown taller
in confidence
i have grown smaller
from the tears i have shed, every memory
i've had to leave behind
has lightened my step
in the space of a year i have changed
learned to make poetry
out of anything

things i have learned so far
in university:
how to lie
and how to tell the truth
and how to walk the fine line
between the two
and come out with three words:

i miss you

"That's a dancing shadow,"
you tell me.
"That's a silent song.
Listen; can you tell me what you hear?"

I guess
I can hold your hand now,
after all this.
So I do.
It's warm
but distant.
They tell me that
no one surface in this world
ever really touches another;
something,
electricity
or air
or energy
will always keep them apart.
Or something like that.
The point is
I can prove this,
for I have held your hand
I have heard your words,
Ethereal,
meaningless to my ears,
but beautiful.

"One more time,"
you ask.
"Where are we?"

"Here,"
I answer,

and this seems to satisfy you.

a jewel of a lake, hanging
from a rough gold chain of stars
summer air and midnight sounds
quiet water, echoing
loud beneath the old wood
bare feet touching sand, pockets
filled with pebbles
i sat down
eyes closed
and i felt my heartbeat

i opened my eyes to grey
to rain, to fog, to half past autumn
soggy leaves on the cracked cement
and the lake and stars only a lament
playing in my ears, fondly
saying goodbye
and i thought i would be still
i thought i would be calm
empty, sitting here
among dead trees
but i looked to my right
a familiar face
and i felt my heartbeat
missing summer less and less
each day

I don't feel
present
in the moment.
Looking from the outside in
and yet
trapped
inside my body.
Handwriting,
familiar;
voice,
silent;
thoughts,
ignored.
A few steps behind;
a few steps,

and I'm right back where I started.

In this past year I have become dormant,
confidence
invested somewhere safe
and then left behind,
no trail,
no evidence.
Only me.
Now, among these tall trees,
emerging buds
and flowers,
faces tipped toward the sun,
I lie down.
Eyes closed,
I surrender
to who I used to be;
almost willingly,
with an ease that scares me.

And I'm right back where I started.

this is something I don’t usually say:
“talk to me.”
no, seriously, I hate it
when those words appear before me
and your mouth moves,
all serious and stuff,
no smiles.
I like your smiles,
they’re part of your face
and I like your face
and when you say
“talk to me”
your eyes straighten, open
wide like your mouth
which has shrunk
and your cheeks are hollow,
smiles pushed down your throat
and the words form
from that unnatural emptiness.
it troubles me, really
that you’d say it.
it troubles me more
that I’ve said it now,
that my own mouth has created this monster
because I know you will say “yes”
and I know I will comply
and I know the conversation will be full
of things I don’t like
like serious words
and ugly phrases
and honest emotions
(because I don’t know how to lie)
(except I don’t know how to feel)
(so I guess I’ll have to lie)
and then when it’s over,
will I feel better?
it’s something I don’t ask myself,
for fear of having the answer:
“why won’t you talk to me?”
I’ll talk to you.

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.

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

I wrote this on the spot,
without a thought
as to who might read it.

I wrote this on a whim,
sink or swim,
I told myself,
trying to catch my thoughts as they floated by,
grab on
and make it to shore.

I wrote this sitting there,
on the rocky bank
of my escaped fate,
dripping with grateful water
and empty.

I wrote this empty,
trying to fill the space left over
from the thoughts that did escape;
I caught a few
and saved myself

but of course
I wasn't satisfied.
Sink or swim,
I told myself,
you knew how it would go.

I wrote this sitting there,
ashamed
and childish
and wanting more from myself.

I wrote this on a whim,
sink or swim,
I told myself,
write it now
or you'll forget.

I wrote this on the spot,
without a thought
as to who might read it
or why.