I keep meaning to give you
all the letters that I
wrote
and to
resist
this restraint, my hand holding onto
the paper
of the words
I almost told you,
felt the need to tell you,
in the silhouette of
candle flame and
sitting alone.

I'm so courageous when I'm
by myself,
and when I know what my lungs
feel like
what my fingers feel like, pinching a
pen to tell you, wholeheartedly,
the things I
will not say

I keep meaning to give you the letters
I wrote you,
I wrote you my secret and

a secret is a loss
that feels like an
ephemeral
victory

It's not that I'm not
pretty,
that's beside the
point:

My eyes are seen before my
words
My body before my
contributions
My beauty before my
art

I am more than just an
ornament
and Christmas lights for
eyes.

It's funny now,
looking back to
November
September,
back to August when
I was so unsure and
put my faith in
idols

I keep looking back to
Vienna,
to Istanbul,
to charcoal eye-liner and hanging lamps,
Morocco

and here I am:
where I never thought
we'd be
where I have no idea
where I'm going and
there's a cloudy, veil of haze
protecting and
desisting me

I didn't know my worries wouldn't
redesign my days

so here I sit:
the coffee's hot
and I've started Ballet,
again

and I know that after the longest Winter
under trees,
spent on my own
that even though the next stop is
the desert
that you'll be there
and I won't be
alone.

I keep thinking about a white
house in a garden
with drooping dahlias
lining the crooked
stone path

a stone path that leads to
an awning- spilling shadows from its
canopy
down to cover
a degrading wooden
step

I keep thinking about the door
single panel window and
unwashed, dusty curtains,
lace, sunlight bursting through
the
window fogged with
grime and age

I keep thinking of places
that do not exist
and are puzzles of
things I have
seen
before

where even the bees are lazily buzzing symphonies and
the tallest trees I've ever seen sway in their drunken lull,
it's August in southern Oregon and
I keep thinking about a
white house in
a garden

I used to think I'd make you
fall in love
with me

but now I know,
as I fold my
clothes
and I pull my
denim jeans
over my
thighs
(I think they've gotten bigger)
and I brush my hair, that's
coming in blonde again
(I need to go get a box of
dye)
and I can't seem to find my
glasses
again

that there's nothing
I could have ever
done
to make you fall in love,
could not have done to make you fall
in love

with endless months of
rain
and another grey
spring:

you were bound to
fall in love with me
and there's nothing
I could
have done to
start
or stop it.

It's 7 a.m. and drizzling
The Willamette Valley's
late winter chill

I am not a runner.
but here I am, starting
the incline

2,064 feet up, up, up,

it's Sunday and
The butte is my church
Celebrating the running god

I am not a runner.
and
my shirt is soaked
with sweat
and I'm only a mile in and my
faith
is in question:
where my mind is reminding me that
maybe I can't do it
and I know that I have flaws

where instead of praying, I'm thinking
****, ****, ****, ****.... ****!

During the ascent to the
Running god,
I'm not a runner.

When I wonder if I'm devout enough
strong enough
dedicated enough and
good enough,
when I'm
constantly tempted
by the allure of the downhill,
the seductive persuasion of the
descent

I am not a runner
and the butte is my
Church.