"I like you"
you said, and I waited for a "but..."
instead came your arms and
"no matter what"

U.
You.
Hue.
You.
You are the reason why I can’t write anyou
it is taking me so long thinking ofyou
styles, figyoures, metaphyours,
I can’t even finis-
any sentenc-you
Stop.
You’re the reas-you
Youarethereaso-you.
****. Even if I think faster, you can still keep pace-you.
You are a mountaintop between dawn-you.
I can’t write anyou.
How you can you I you write you any you poetry you
make you art you you you-
if there’s always you slipping between my wo-you-rds and thoughts.
I can’t you
You.
You.

Now I know why poets can’t write when they are in lov-you.
You.
You.

Sorry love but how can I make you a poem when there are no words
I can think of that can describe you except …
You.
You.
*You.

i want to embody every girl.

i want to be a sunday school girl in the ‘60s, red ribbons in my hair, two neatly tied plaits the color of wheatfields, riding my bike down cobblestone streets, sunlight kissing my neck.

i want to be a tattooed punk rock worshipper, electric blue hair and ray-bans, fishnet stockings and the city a blur of entangled lights in the rear-view mirror of my motorcycle.

i want to be a venice girl who reads valentines for a living, rapunzel hair all soft sculptured ringlets, a pet blue bird and summer dresses in floral prints, long eyelashes and sowing glitter.

i want to be a french artist and revolutionist in the ‘90s, **** paintings and led lights, portraits out of beer cans and pencil shavings, a student of the fine arts falling in love again and again with the light and how it falls on the sidewalks & people’s faces & the trees.

i want to be this girl and that girl, a romanian princess in her 20’s, an old witch with a grisly past, a gypsy on the run, a victorian model, a historian with an appetite for gardening, an archaeologist who nicknames all her finds, a singer who grates her guitar on boulevards in italy and cafes in paris for the spare dime, an english man’s favorite daughter. i want to be a struggling ballet dancer with an emotional dependency on poetry, an astronaut who discovers a parallel universe, a noir film actress who smokes too much and has eyes like diamonds, a fortune teller, a vigilante, a musician. every girl’s soul whispers to me.

you want to know how long it took? i knew before we met. there are words and then there are your words. your words made you mine long before i held your hand on the cold uphill dash to the gin bar. i was late and breathless. you broke the ice.
you broke my ice.
i couldn’t eat for making room for you inside of me. i can still see your eyes gazing over my head. i wanted so badly to be every idea you've ever thought. when you realized what had been done to you had been done to me. when the stars refuse to align, over and over, i see the patterns repeated. in your mind, i am always in a state of panic. in my mind, we are never apart.
“and yes, i do believe her mouth is heaven. her kisses falling over me like stars.” and yes, they brought us together. and yes, they keep us apart. i am still so grateful to them for everything. to you for everything. you can view me next to the art as long as you’re still in my eyeline.
you want to know how long it took? the time it took the first grain of sugar to fall.

how long do you think it takes someone to recognize a soulmate? two hours? three? when I was sitting in that train station, did you know I never thought once that you might not show up? did you know you’re the reason gin keeps sneaking into my poetry? and how come we both need to write poetry to feel clean? and can we go to the coast again so I can view you next to the art that is the rolling tide? and is it too much for me to book a plane ticket just because you’re sad? is it enough? should I be doing more on the bad days? what good intentions don’t get swallowed up by distance? do you remember when I wrote all those poems for a man in Colorado, while you loved a woman in California?  how I watched the girl I loved get on a plane and go, then six months later, you did the same thing? how we’re always just out of sync with each other? one move off or three steps behind? do you really think it’s true, about the stars and how I found you? did you know I’d ***** them out if I could? if it meant there’d be nothing star-crossed about this? tell me again how long you think it takes someone to recognize a soulmate? one night? two? the amount of time it takes you to buy sugar and run home to put the kettle on?

I’ve never been a home, only a hotel.
I have graffiti lining the walls of my own heart;
the warnings portrayed by those who have
stayed there before those ahead. Every last
piece of furniture inside has been upturned in
a desperate attempt to find where my own
pride is stationed. This room is a ****** scene,
you know. My collarbones have reached up
and sliced through the jugular of those I’ve kissed.
I’ve dug my fingernails into the stone spines of
those who never deserved to be engraved with
my false passion. I’ve injected heartbreak into the
arms of those I was fully aware would become
addicted.
And yet, I have the nerve to place flowers upon
the graves I dig for those I promised life. I have
the audacity to expect to be treated like a queen
when all I have known is the reign as a dictator.
I apologize to those I’ve given roses and left
thorns on the stems. I apologize for the promises,
and lack of following through. I’ve for too long
pressed my burdens to those who carry their
own. I never meant to become one myself.
And honestly, I apologize for what you’re about
to leap into.

You were a piece of me

I never knew was missing
—
a piece yesterday lost,

a piece tomorrow

was grateful for,

and I wish
 I’d known then.


I wish I’d known then


about the night I spent

shaking shaking shaking

and I said “don’t leave me alone”

and you said “Never.
 I’ll never leave you alone.”



I don’t think I made you promise;

I don’t think it would have mattered.

We were mending the roof

in the middle of a hurricane;

calm curled in clear skies

with clarity promised by

unseeing eyes,

and I wish
 I’d known then.


I wish I’d known then


silence is only uncomfortable

when we don’t want to face

the truth it holds.



I don’t think you ever loved me;

I don’t think you understood.