I hadn't come to the hospital since the last overdose of a friend that shooted whisky in his veins, in the bathroom of an old bar because of a heartbreak. I told the nurse to don't leave me, to be with me the whole time and that if she could light a cigarette for me, sure honey take a smoke, she said and rubbed my head softly like if my dreams where cotton pieces. The body. The night. The blood. Inside my body an invisible, warm hand was digging and took chunks of light and silence. A black hole was opening up through my bones and was filling them with blood and noise. Later a doctor came in and told me that the business was serious, told me to stay still, and asked me what was my blood group, I told him that I knew a little about blood groups, that if he wanted I could talk to him about rock groups, a little bit of Jimi Hendrix Experience, of Cream. No way, the business is serious, sayed the doctor, so I looked at the nurse and I wanted to be with her in a party dancing Spend The Night Together, I wanted to be with a glass of *****, I wanted to give her a kiss in the middle of her white teeth, I wanted to tell her Baby let's get out of here and make love in the beach, I wanted to be in her hands full of trees.

To the girl who sits behind me
On the city bus everyday:
I know they probably say
With your cat-eye and your beehive
That you look like you belong
Way back in the day
But I think you look beautiful,
Even more so yesterday,
When you walked onto the bus
with your hair down wearing tear-stains.
I think you looked best today,
With a messy bun and no makeup
Listening to a song
And laughing
While I tried not to smile

To the guy who wrote the poem for me yesterday:
I know you must work hard,
You come here at six in the morning everyday,
And I don’t know why
But when I look your way I feel safe.
I know you probably hear
That you should take a break
But I know what it’s like
To work hard
Because there’s not another way.
And I know they probably say
With your tattoos and your gages
You don’t look your age
And you shouldn’t have gotten the job,
But I think you look best
At five in the morning
When you’ve just woken up
And you’re sipping coffee
While we wait for the bus
And your hair’s all messy
And your tattoos catch my eye
And I try to read them,
But I don’t want to pry

To the girl who replied to my poem yesterday:
You can read my tattoos
Any time you like
And I think you look best
At six in the morning
When your eyes shine bright
And you sip your coffee
And don’t hide your delight
I like the way
You bite your lip
When you read a book
Or you’re thinking
Or bored,
It drives me crazy
How come we never talk?
Maybe one day,
Instead of poems at bus stops
We could go for a walk.
Well, I have to get off.
Your stop’s in a minute,
Try not to forget it.

To the guy who writes me poems at bus stops:
I feel like I know you better everyday,
But it’s really weird,
Because I don’t know your name
And you don’t know mine,
Which I think is fine,
Because if this turned
Into anything other
Than poems
At bus stops,
I’d probably scare you away
Like everybody else.
Maybe we should stop,
Before we both get hurt.
Signed tearfully,
The girl in the seat behind you

To the girl who told me to go away:
You wouldn’t scare me away,
Not yesterday,
Not today,
Not ever.
Please don’t make me leave
Like everybody else.
Signed hopefully,
The guy who writes poems at bus stops

To the guy who writes poems at bus stops:
My name’s Haley
And sometimes I close my eyes
And wonder what they call you.
I take pictures everyday
And that’s why I’m here at five
Or maybe six
Every morning
To capture the perfect sunrise.
Here’s the picture I got
Yesterday, just in case
You wanted to see.

To Haley,
Who gets up early
To capture sunrises:
My name’s Ryan and
I spend all day crunching numbers,
Praying they don’t crunch back.
The picture was beautiful
And I though that maybe
One day
We could meet for coffee
And turn this into something
More than poems
At bus stops.

To Ryan, the number-cruncher
Who stole my heart:
I’d love to go for coffee
And we can laugh while we talk,
Maybe I can even show you
My favorite place
In Central Park
And we can go for a walk.

Dearest Haley,
Who captures sunrises
And stole my heart:
I can’t believe it’s been
A year since we began
With poems at bus stops
And coffee while we
Watched rain drops and talked about us.
I know this may be too soon,
I pray you don’t think me a fool,
To believe a number-cruncher
And sunrise-capturer
Could have a happily ever after.
But what do you say
We give it a shot
And spend the rest of our lives
Telling our kids
About how a number-cruncher
And a sunrise-capturer
Had a fairytale wedding
And are living their
Happily ever after.

She asked if I'd looked in the trunk of your car
A place I hadn't thought of
Since that dreadful, horrid day
All the nightmares of my childhood
Came bursting into the waking world
And desecrated my heart
Memories of that day
Are seared into my soul
With all the malice and menace
Of a thousand angry demons
Who finally had their chance
To clutch and cling and claw
And they almost pulled me under

She asked if I'd looked in the trunk of your car
A question weighted
With all the trauma and distrust
That solidified that day
In a physical proof we could no longer deny
And you could no longer hide
For years you went on deceiving
You lived inside your secret world
Where lies and life and pain
Got washed away inside that bottle
One you insisted had been gone
And you made us believe
You were no longer its slave

She asked if I'd looked in the trunk of your car
A question she spoke that day as well
After you had admitted to hiding the bottle there
But you weren't hiding anymore
The lie at last caught up with you
When I walked into that ER room
And I looked into the face
Of everything I had most feared
All the evils in my life
Were reflected in your eyes
Eyes meant to love and protect me
Now hollow and burning with hate and pain
That haunt me even still

She asked if I'd looked in the trunk of your car
And the truth was, I had
Just the smell of the car brought the memories back
I've borrowed your car and I can't help but remember
That day so clear in my mind
Trembling I glanced inside the trunk
And found it exactly the same as it was that day
A tattered notebook and some junk
And the same empty bag I pulled that bottle from
I had thrown it away with shaking hands
These hands are shaking still
Barely believing we have survived
Your journey to rock-bottom

She asked if I'd looked in the trunk of your car
And this bag is all that remains
A proof that contradicts your insistence
That's what is past is gone
And can be discarded
Like this empty plastic bag
Yet it just won't go away
Even when I put it back
Tightly closed inside a hidden space
And I walk away
You proved to me that day
That nightmares may fade
But they never really die

She asked if I'd looked in the trunk of your car
And I could hear the tension in her voice
Strained with hurt, hope, and pain
Wrapped so tightly in her expectation of betrayal
And my own heart hardened
Even as I reached out to hers
Bitterness seeped just a little deeper in my soul
As I pushed the idea away
That she should comfort me for once
I smiled and brightly reassured her
I had looked and all was well
There was nothing in that trunk
Except a past that binds us still

i take showers at 2:30 in the morning,
because i believe it helps me think and
be O.K. with the fact that you can sleep without me,
and i seep into my mattress petting my cat
and watching sunlight tickle through shades.
i believe it helps me be O.K. with how
you have become my everything.
you are the cream stirred in my coffee every morning,
you are my mornings, my nights,
the dreams i have between 1 am and 7 am,
the bruises i receive from tripping over self conscious
decisions.
i believe it helps me be O.K. with
how i must keep myself occupied when you’re not around,
and i can easily run laps
around and over and around and over,
because otherwise i will feel the emptiness.
i believe it helps me be O.K.
with knowing you will eventually
leave.
and i won’t know what to do
but
sit
and take showers at 2:30
in the morning.

I've read poems about the way
sleepy lovers watched eyelids flutter
softly, like tiny butterflies
perched on daisies and wilting white roses.

I could only compare the light movements
of your eyes to the sun painting the clouds
in a way which made me wish to reach
into the sky and pluck harps by golden gates.

but I don't believe in angels.

I've read poems about coffee stained lips
and menthol cigarettes dancing
between fingertips, to match soft
Good Mornings and mumbled I Love You's.

I could only compare your speech
to the songs curling from the heavens
at three o clock in the morning,
as the quiet world sleeps and I
strain to hear broken lullabies.

but I don't believe in angels.

I've read poems about boys with irises
that run a thousand miles deep,
with bones made out of gold,
and with stories that pull girls
in like fruit flies in a spiders web.

I could only compare your eyes
to one who has seen the pain hidden
in the deepest corners of the earth.
your bones hold the weight of the world
and the stories you spin only seem fit
to one who carries shaking wings
and a glowing halo.

but I don't believe in angels.

A liberation
From the permanent
Weight
On your face

Clear crisp outlines
And details
Blur into
Fuzz

Your eyes relax and start
To adjust
The orchestra begins
To play

The players
Dressed in black
Look like dancing
Shadows
The light spaces
Between them
Take up a shape
Of their own