her cheeks almost flooded her temples
as the ends of her lips were stretched
to a crescent by something I said -
an unmeditated exhibit of bliss
roused by quips equipped with comparisons sense couldn’t fix.
her voice gushed formless noise
that filled a void like
full moons over countrysides
or books dropped onto a library’s toes.
and that’s when I knew she’d say yes -
or that she’s ‘busy this weekend but how ‘bout the next?’
and when friends ask how’d I know, I say
it’s because
she laughed.

my hair caught fire,
scalp tingling like a hive disturbed,
neck turning to stone unable to change angle -
listening to the hatedisgustjudgmentdisapproval
I thought I heard in the whispered snickers
speared from the back of the room
piercing into a defenseless morale
usually quick to be defensive and assume
I’ve gained more members of an audience
weighing everything I do.
and that’s when I believed I was ugly or too quiet or weird or unfriendable
and when parents tried to understand why I tried to sever fat that wasn’t there
or censor a humor home to my nature, I say
it’s because
they laughed.

time recedes
like a tide over my feet
sweetly cold with salt crystals too nimble to hold;
the clear body of occurence reaching in
brief rushes tumbling with reward, boredom and crisis
breaking at my ankles to exist on the shores of consciousness -
beached for what feels like the breadth of a bead
as it pulls back the way a lover’s hand must
if she’s to make it back into the city before morning.

joy rolls in waves; floating a ways out
we wait for it to invade sands bleached dry
restoring them dark and damp with enough ply to splash in and rinse the hands
but so does misfortune - an inherent drawback
hindering our earth from being considered a heaven;
a menacing current ripping us from our element -
a punishment of stranding despite the gratitude committed
to toss lost like driftwood
in the madness of clear mountains inverting into foam valleys.

blisswrecked;
and sinking at a speed growing as times further into the Sea -
causing me to treasure at abyssal altitudes
the currents I had an overhead view of,
now buried in the sun’s glare torching the water silver,
I strain to see the raw crisp our currents had
and the burning salt of happening
and wonder how long it’s been since the horizon
was close enough to swim in.
ships of certainties and stillness discover the grave of the chest
as it’s drawn by the gravity emitted
falling out of Now’s orbit -
pushed into the grains the glass’s upper half hailed
unable to surface unless what has sunken
is called to sail once again over our ankles.