Do you ever hear a song and less than a minute in, you already know it’s going to be your favorite?
You were that to me.
And much like a song, from you I could not flee.
You were chords and melodies I had never thought of putting together: and you were beautiful all the same.
If only you knew the way your heartbeat has become my favorite sound.
And much like the song, I could listen to you over and over again and each time fall more and more in love.
Because in a world of chaotic noise, you were my lullaby.
I would forever hear you in bits and pieces of other songs,
I would hum your tune absentmindedly as I go down a street I once walked with you,
And if I ever forget, I am sure my mind will wander to the songs we once made and remember,
Remember the beats and sounds that brought me to you,
and even if the melody has faded or become outdated,
I will always want to press repeat.

I wanted to drown out the world with you,
To put you in my ears and turn up the volume until you were all I could hear,
Because even if you only consisted of a few simple chords, your melody was my favorite
It was so unexpected and broken and yet lovely
I could listen to you laugh for hours, I could gaze at you for even longer
There was something in the way you looked at me and when you kissed me we made music,
Tell me how to relive it all again
The moment I met you, the moment our lips first met, the moment I fell in love with you,
But even the most beautiful of songs come to an end,
And I will never understand,
But I never did learn how to read sheet music.

Like a sun with its light
Like a cloud with its rain
Like a moon with its coolness
Like a rain with its drops

Like a eye with its tears
Like a lips with its smile
Like a butterfly with its flower
Like a bee with its honey

I can never be with you
Coz I am alive within you
And  can never be apart from you

I.
I’m standing in front of a stove starved  
for heat, shivering before a *** of boiling water,
my stiff fingers attempt to fold
themselves into my chest.
it's unusually cold in California this week,
I know you would be pleased.
I am focused on a gifted bouquet of orange roses
decorating my dining table;
only you would understand why
they make me so blue.

II.
I thought about you this Thanksgiving,
how your hands drew a line through the air
showcasing points of chaos, as you recounted
the turkey fire, and your grandfather's
drunken speech, 8 years ago this week.
I couldn't remember the punchline,
but we laughed so **** hard.

I figured that's why you were writing,
you too recalled a time I made you laugh,
but edited the sad parts out.

III.
You ask how I am.
I want to tell you I feel not like myself,
but I think it unfair to make you a reference point
of whom I think I should be.
So I'll say, I feel less
like the girl you would remember,
and more like a stranger
living in her body.

IV.
I had a dream three days in a row
where we were sitting on the shallow end
of an empty pool avoiding remnants
of algae water, settled in small ponds.
I was wearing a burgundy, babydoll dress
that I used to wear when I was in eight.
I whispered something in slow motion,
you laughed, teeth grinning towards the sky,
like a child;
how bittersweet it was to remember the way
the lines find their place around your almond eyes.

I guess you will always be a place where
my subconscious goes to ache.

when everything is amazing in the beginning
when you get giddy fast
when it feels too good to be true
that's when you **run

You were the Barbie jeep engineer.
You were the 5-card pinochle player.
You were the gripe to do the dishes.
You were the patient mall bench sitter.

You were Elvis Presley records and
paper backed crime novels.
You were my new antivirus software.
You were the chatter in the middle of an
NCIS episode.
You were the "It's okay, sweetie" on the
other end of the phone.

You were the voice of every bathtime storybook.
You were the baking soda on my first wasp sting.
You were the green Ford Escort parked
outside my middle school every afternoon.

You were the loudest clap at my graduation.
You were the sticky caramel corn crumbs in the
living room that held the place together.
You were the laughter

You were the toolkit when my pictures hung crooked.
You were the cornerback baker, the pecan pie maker,
dance recital seat saver and the road trip driver.
You were the puppy-dog pill-giver and the
broken heart mender.

You were the church goer and the goodness seeker.
You were the black-haired teaser and the
very best secret keeper.
You were a prideful wig wearer and
wheelchair rider.

You were a cancer fighter.

You were my first call.
You still are.

I was pulled from the comfort
of sleep and warmth by my
father's voice from the floor
below. "Double-time girl,
we're going to be late!"
I hurried down the stairs
of our home to slip into
winter boots and zip up
my puffy winter coat.

In the garage, my dad was
already in his gray van.
I opened the passenger door,
climbed up over the rusted
rims and plopped into the
seat next to him. The cold
raced to reach my body. I
buried my bare hands in my
sleeves and prayed my wet hair
wouldn't freeze into icicles. I
could feel the stitches of the
leather pressing through my jeans.
Even they were cold.

My father's figure sat hunched in
the seat next to me. He gripped
the steering wheel with black
gloves. Staring forward,
he considered big things:
chemical structs and his
wife's lingering debt.

A familiar melody began to
waft out of the radio. Oops.
That meant that I had made
us  late to school...again.
At 7:35 each morning
Garrison Keillor's voice
spoke on something my
parent's called the Writer's
Almanac. I listened with
fascination to his voice,
which seemed to promise
each listener an afternoon
backstroke through the
milky way and the strength
to land, with grace, on Earth's
hard ground.

Out my window,
I watched the early-morning
breadwinners rushing to buy
their fuel: gasoline
and coffee. I wondered
if I could ever be good
enough, worth enough to be
mentioned by Keillor.
What could I do? What
would make me special?
Should I write poetry?

The episode came to a
well-known, comfortable
close: "Be well, do good
work, and keep in touch."
I hoped to do just that.

My dad's sudden voice
brought me back to his
shaky van. "****."
He too had been
wondering.

Come to me, darling,
in the midst of this sleet storm.

Come with your chest open,
your heart pumping.

Forget the words I thew and
the glass that screeched across the room.

Forget the night you held my hand
and whispered her name.

Don't bring a bouquet of apologies
or a fistful of daises.

Don't tuck your marionette strings in
your back pocket.

Leave all your master tools at home,
and come home into my arms.

Lay with me and show me the ****
interior of your veins.

Break apart my rib cage and steal
a gulp of air from my lungs.

Borrow a scalpel and let's peel away
the layers of each other's skin.

****** the bed in the process, but
bask in the honesty of muscles and tendons.

Reveal to me secrets hiding in your intestines,
and I'll introduce you to the skeletons in my mind.

Risky? Yes. But maybe we'd be a pretty kind of sad,
like a broken butterfly wing stuck to the pavement.