His hurricane heart.

His desert lungs.

His adam’s apple

and then all the sudden you’re

falling from paradise.
He is Chicago in a picture frame
instead of outside your window.

He is the part of the song you skip
because it hurts too much.

The best dream you have is of

him leaving

because then you get

to miss him like it just happened.
Your regret.
Your favorite mistake.

If you put it in poem,
then no one can use it against you.
Your red dress

and no one to dance with.

Your moth-wing hands,

always looking for the light.
If you put it in a poem,
then everyone can use it against you.
It’s not always easy being the 
one who stays.

I DON'T WANT YOU TO EVER
LEAVE ME BUT KNOWING THAT
YOU WILL IS LIKE KNOWING
THAT THE BEATING HEART
IN MY CHEST WILL
STOP BEATING

SOMETIMES I WONDER WHAT
WOULD'VE HAPPENED IF I HAD
SPOKEN MY MIND, WHAT
WOULD'VE HAPPENED IF YOU
DIDN'T LEAVE. BUT MOST OF ALL
I WONDER WHAT WOULD'VE
HAPPENED IF I WAS THE LAST
THING ON YOUR MIND BEFORE
YOU TOOK THAT LEAP INTO THE
NEVER ENDING DARKNESS.
WOULD YOU HAVE STAYED?

MAYBE IT'S BETTER FOR ME TO LEAVE
BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO

IT'S THE INTOXICATING WAY
YOU DIDN'T CARE OR NEVER
WILL CARE ABOUT ME AND
MY PROBLEMS. IT'S THE WAY
YOU USED TO BREATHE MY
NAME IN THE DARKNESS
WHEN YOU THOUGHT I
COULDN'T HEAR. IT'S THE WAY
YOU DENIED BEING THE TINIEST
BIT ATTACHED TO ME EVEN
THOUGH BOTH YOU AND I
KNEW YOU WERE. BUT MOST
OF ALL, IT'S THE WAY YOU
LEFT ME, A SOBBING MESS ON
THE FLOOR, WITH YOUR NAME
AS A LAST BREATH ON MY
SWOLLEN LIPS.

HE GRABBED HER FACE AND
PULLED HER IN LIKE SHE WAS
HIS ONLY REMAINING SOURCE
OF LIVING, LIKE SHE WAS THE
GRAVITY KEEPING HIM ON EARTH

I love my life.
All of it.
Every time the sun warms or
Burns; the rain soothes, or
Stings with angry ice; barrel-hot
Buckshot, I
Thank. Thank for the
Weather.
I love my life.
All of it.

It's an art.
All of it.
Every time the axe rests above
Your neck mid-air,
Wink at the masked one
Holding the handle.
Thank. Thank for the
Swift awakening
Awaiting.
Add years to your dreaming.

It's an art.
All of it.

I love you, poet.
All that is you.
You hold an opposing answer
In each hand, commanding
The chooser to hold
Your gaze and keep
Asking.
The best readings rest between
Every line drawn.

I love you, poet.
It's an art. All that
Is you. **** well
All of it.

Sleep safe.
Add years to your
Dreaming.

i wonder if the doors in the house you grew up in
started slamming themselves to save your father the trouble.
i wonder if you can remember the last time you prayed,
and if you had trouble unfolding your hands.
i wonder if your mother knows
about the collection of hearts you hide in your closet,
i wonder if she could tell mine apart from the rest.
i wonder if your shoes know the reason why
you keep them by the back door and not your bedside.
and sometimes, i wonder
if you ever think about that night when i told you,
you wouldn't need to drink so much if you had me.
but it seems like we only speak when you've got body on your brain,
whiskey in your glass,
your judgement is overcast,
and you know i'm too weak to ignore you.
i learned how to translate your texts
from drunken mess back into english.
i am fluent in apology, but i don't ask you for them anymore.
this is just how it is.
it's not enough for either of us
but ******* it we are not above settling.
so i will ignore her name on your breath,
and you will ignore the fact that this means something to me.
i always thought the first time i kissed you,
it would be on your mouth.
i just wanted to be something warm for you to sink into,
something that could convince you to stay a second night.
but i sneak you out in the early morning,
and you take a piece of my pride with you when you go.
i am left to nurse the hangover from a wine i've never tasted,
wondering how this is possible.
waiting for the next drunk call,
for the next time i get to pretend we are lovers,
the next time i get to live out the fantasy i am most ashamed of.
it is the one in my head where you want me when you're sober too.

- m.f.