The corners of the pages
fold in on themselves,
and the blankets are
still a mess from before.
At night the pyramids talk to me,
and the sails of ships.
We converse about who
I used to be.
Hidden under petals,
privately ruling a petulant world;
no one approaching me
with weak teeth
trying to tell me to enjoy
being alone.
There are no ashes in these bones.
Vines grip and swallow me
and keep me warm.
In the morning I make the bed
before weak knees
walk the city.
Alone is my home.
The zipper pull of the
train tracks is
the loudest quiet
I have ever made love to.

No weakness tonight -
I tremble and ache
and doubt has colonized my veins...
But loneliness and heartbreak
will not be my bed mates.
I will sleep with dry eyes,
knees far from my chest.
Tonight I will rest.
Tonight I went on a date
with the moon.
I told her about you.
I started to say that
you shine like she does
but before I finished the thought
I knew I was wrong.
I will not write a line
saying you are my moon.
But for you, I burn,
And when I'm with you
I am full.
And when you're gone
the moon is full.
"There is no time for weakness,"
she tells me,
"Be full."

I'm sorry my love is
a stubborn silence
and not the singing of the rain.
I'm sorry all I do is stare
and hope for you to hear
what's in my head.
Sometimes I forget that
people aren't books,
And that we have more than
just hearts in our chests.
Sometimes I'd rather bleed
than speak,
And hope that you
don't mind the mess.
I see now that life is full
Of people leaving.
And listening to them saying goodbye
won't make them stay.
But my voice has always felt like
an echo in a cave.
And Courage is a word
I have yet to define.
But if you give me a "next time"
I'll try
Because you saw me when
I was a ghost -
And I saw you and felt
like I was home.
Maybe my silence can be
The echo in your bones.

You sure do ask me
a lot of things
Like why do I look
like I don't know
where to be
I answer
Maybe I don't
And you shrug and
look away
You ask if I've ever
been in darkness so
deep I couldn't see
I answer
Yes I have
And you think of
something else to ask
Like if I've ever
Lived somewhere haunted
I answer
With ghost stories and
you tell me yours
And we go on and on
with our little talks
And I go on quietly
wondering
What you're looking for
And what you've found

In the creases and folds
I find the one.
He dusts me off and
puts me on a shelf.
I see him walk by
a thousand times.
I bury him again.
I'm having trouble recognizing
which of us is made of bronze -
The penny that you don't collect
'cause it's face is always turned
toward the ground.
But every hand that ever
touched me was your hand.
My skin is full of scars
from fingertips.
Sometimes I think I'll never
be warm again.
But how could you forget
a burn like that?

Your life is a pattern
Of analogies and fantasies
The stories no one hears
And the secrets in your dreams

You drown in the pattern
As the sun goes down
Leaving, though you still
need its light

But it's futile to try to
stop the night

Will you break the pattern?
Have you ever really tried?
Maybe sometimes being broken
is the only way to see inside.