Ernest Hemingway once said
"Write drunk; edit sober."
But to hell with that,
I'll give you my worst.
I'll give you all the pieces
when my heart decides it's too much
or too little
and my mind forgets the difference.
I swear I'll sink right through the floorboards
if you don't find someway to fill the spaces.
You are the sand clenched in my
scraped up palms,
sticking to the worst parts of me;
the ones that everyone else finds
too messy,
too broken,
too tired,
too empty.
You find someway to keep my broken limbs
moving forward, even when I have nothing left.
I have nothing left.
There is nothing left.
And I've checked this over a thousand times
to make sure every letter is in its proper place.
It must be perfect,
even if I'm not.
Because even if I give you my worst,
you always deserve more than my best.

I’m falling desperately for pieces of you,
and all of you at the same time.
I know I’ve stumbled in so deep,
but there’s still more for me to find.
If you’d like you can call me a fool,
and I’ll be as foolish as they come,
but that still won’t explain how
your eyes make me go numb.
I’m keeping every little bit,
because I can’t bear
to let it go.
The subtle curve your soft lips make
when they hear me say your name,
and the freckle on your collarbone,
your right, my left.
I think of how I feel so much more than skin
when you simply brush against me.
Your hand in mine.
My left, your right.
This isn’t a poem,
it’s a 3 am conversation on your basement couch
and a quiet night spent on the bench next to the lake.
I can never write poems about you,
because it’s impossible to write a poem
about poetry itself.

You are a stallion,
The wind running through your knotted mane,
Free and wild.

For years he has tried to tame you,
Mold you like clay into something he can understand,
Something he can control.
(You belong wholly to yourself.)

The stable is crumbling,
The fence is decaying,
The trough is empty.
(This place has nothing for you.)

Use your hooves to gallop away, my dear.
Do not ever come back,
For this is not your home.
It never was.

You told me that you used to be a king.
You showed me your crown but it was only a pile of ashes.
You showed me a history book, from an abandoned library, with your story ripped out from the seams.

I traced the edges of the pages and felt your past on the end of my fingertips.
I know it's been so long but the thought still brings you to your knees.

You said you had to watch the sky fall for hours and hours and hours that evening.
You were so close to the stars, and you told me how you used to talk to them during the night.
You used to live with them, you told me.

Everyone thought you were crazy but I could see in your eyes, they were family.
But you witnessed their deaths.
Wings couldn't help you
gravity has betrayed you.

It's time to stop holding your breath and just let it fall out.
Sweetness sings a lullaby you forbid to listen to.
You believe that nothing will ever be as sweet as your past.
No love can replace, for you lost all your brothers and sisters that night
so you have nothing to lose.
No secrets,
no family
just you.

The day I left, I forgot to pack self-consciousness.
It was all too easy to reach into the mirror
and pull out my imperfections like saltwater taffy.
Then I ate them.
I wondered as I boarded the plane,
I wondered why my hands weren’t clenched in unrevealing fists,
I wondered why my eyes didn’t flicker to the person
behind me in front of me to my left to my right over here over there.
Perhaps my eyes were now focused on the clouds above and new lands below.

The day I left, I neglected to pack loneliness.
I roamed a new city, so alive, my lungs made room for more crisp
cigarette-infused air and I sat on the steps of a grand opera hall for hours
watching people walk, talk, listen, look, shop, love, learn, pretend, remember.
I understood why my arms did not ache
from the strain of carrying this lonesomeness,
I understood why there was so much beauty
in being a person submerged among thousands of people.
I realized it was a privilege I had been abusing for far too long.

The day I left, I refused to pack fear.
It unsettled my stomach and dampened most of the fun.
I left it there, tucked and stowed neatly away under my plane seat,
sending it back to where I came from and hoping
that the flight attendants would do a thorough cleaning.
I realized why some people got lost on purpose,
that there was fearlessness in not knowing
your north from south from west from east.

The day I came back, I carried
another missing piece of my vagabond heart.
I found it drifting in the strains of a street musician’s Vivaldi,
found it etched into the wooden signs above cafes and bakeries
found it in the spitting passion of lips and linguistics.
I recognized the part of me that was scattered across continents
and I brought it back home.

Every piece I find
draws me deeper into you,
and my shaking hands refuse
to know exactly what to do.

The tides are like your eyes,
always moving but never leaving,
and my head’s below the surface
but somehow I still keep breathing.

Some nights these thoughts
are all I have.
Some nights they are thoughts
I hope you have yourself.
Like early mornings with oversized sweaters
and coffee a bit too warm,
with a slight fog
and gentle rain outside.
Like mid evening spent on a soft grassy hill
with a calming breeze
and wispy clouds.
Like battling 4 am as it tries
to sink our drooping eyelids,
holding on only by
anchoring our eyes to one another.
Some nights they are words.
Some nights they are what keeps me company
when I drift into six hours
of softened slumber.
Some nights they are hopes.
Other nights they are needs.
Every night they are about you.