Rushing
Underwater
This tunnel sweeps me on
When will it give me
the gift
Of my next breath?
My lungs
Burn.

So many exits
Little answers
Side tunnels that lead
To an explanation
The tunnel sweeps me to one,
Then drags me back
Again.

It will not let me go.

Where will I
Be left?
Wet,
Gasping for air?
Will I be free?
Or will I fall
Forever sinking,
Into the sea?

Rushing
Underwater
Into the dark of the tunnel.
Waiting
To come up
For air.

loved you once
love you still
always have
always will

Is it too much to ask for you to talk to me?
I just want to hear your voice again,
To hear that you still care.

Instead you cast me aside
As if I was nothing.
Not your friend,
Not your enemy,
Just an empty shell of what used to be
The girl of your dreams.

Saying we can be friends
Usually means just that.

Instead you decide to never call,
Text,
Email,
Nothing.

If I am nothing to you,
Why do you still mean so much to me?

I once wanted to be an opera singer,
My four year old lungs
Screeching louder than my little brother's wails.

I wanted to be like the ones on TV,
Who could capture an audience
By their mournful croons and exuberant trills.

That fat lady in furs and pearls,
So devastated by her loss
That the whole crowd weeps with her.

I want to move people,
To make them feel all of my emotions
As if they were their own.

I snuck into your room last night
You always leave the doors unlocked and those lights aren’t fooling anyone
The floorboards creaked with cloudy memories and I feared I’d wake you
But your mind was buried so deeply in darkness the sky could not stir you

I laid with you in silence last night
Your bones whimpered and rattled like the bitter cold wind against the windows
The ice must have certainly entered through those tiny cracks in the glass, in your shell
Crystals fell softly from the ceiling and landed upon your cheeks

I took myself away from you last night
Peeled back your eyelids gently and wiped out the cloudiness I’d left there
Soft cotton picked up the old traces left on your skin, your fingertips; under your nails
Your mouth I traced with honey and perfumes; I placed young crickets under your pillow

I left you last night
Though you walked me to the door and watched me drive away, you never once saw me
You must have been dreaming that I was merely visiting; a guest, unaware
Blind to the mirror you dressed yourself in, and adorned in the “all along”

You always were a light sleeper.

The electricity
in that moment,
when your hand first
brushed past mine,
could have lit up New York City
for the night.

I could have lived in that moment.
Plugged in.
Turned on.

But, in the same way we got used to
light switches and indoor plumbing,
I got used to your touch.

What I wouldn't give
to go back to candlesticks and outhouses
for just one night
so that when you reach for my hand tomorrow,
I won't be jaded by the light that now seems
so perfectly ordinary.

His name was meant
for someone three times his age.
Someone who reaches into
the pocket of his sweater
for little hard candies,
amidst games of shuffleboard
and canasta.

I would have never pegged him
for a Walter or a Leonard.
(Wait, was it Larry?)

But then again,
the way he
sweet talked me into
his bed that night,
I would've never expected to
wake up alone
the next morning.

A post-it note balancing delicately
on the indentations of his pillow;
*Had to go to work. Nice meeting you, doll.

You run your fingers across maps
Like you are caressing the cheek
of your dying lover
for the last time