we haven't spoken in months but
just so you know, today
we're fighting
'cause when he tried to kiss me
in ohio
i wouldn't let him,
feeling guilty as my
heart
is with you
in california
beating on the floor
while you listen
to the sound
of hers.

My aunt is 40 years old and she was coloring
with crayons on the bathroom floor after a bad spell.
We kept them in the cabinet under the sink
so she could pull them out to calm her down,
or pull her out,
of the dream she was having over glazed eyes that weren't sleeping.
She would talk to us about silly things
that happened to her or how she met
her husband after the war in his pretty,
neat, and navy blue military jacket.

She really met my uncle
on the train to Chicago in 1977,
but we don't tell her that because it doesn't make a difference
and it won't make her feel any better.
The truth never really does that
I've learned.

That's the thing about the rest of your life.
When you're sixteen and beautiful with
a cute brown bob and eyes to match
you think you can do anything
and when you picture
the rest of your life it doesn't include
lying in a bath robe talking to your niece
about something you never did or never had
with spit on your chin and hands that need washed
coloring a picture in a book meant for kids.

You never thought you'd be stuck
being a kid
sometimes.
Out of control,
shaky,
twisted
and a little bit beautiful
through things.
You never thought you'd be missing some parts,
or you'd be spacey
or empty
in bad, bad moments like this.

But that's how it is and that's how it was
for my aunt as she tried to formulate her thoughts
into something she was dying and dying to tell me.

I didn't know what she wanted or how to
fix
all the things I didn't quite understand were happening.
All I know is that she
is a child
and children need attention, to be played with, and to be loved.
So I picked up a crayon and starting coloring
around the edges she had missed
trying to fill her in.

On my roof
with a cigarette
the night wind
comforting me again
the warm burn of the cigarette touches my lips
i stare at the stars
and for a second i lose myself.
Your hypnotizing voice brings my back
you grab my hand
as we lay side by side
chain smoking
feeling alive.
You grab a strand of my hair
that the breeze blew your way
and run your fingers along.
I lay there
feeling your touch
smelling you
your electric
smoky
enticing smell.
You pull me on top of you
as soon as i finish smoking
and you say i'm like a forest fire
i burn with a fire so bright it lite's up my eyes,
my soul.
I destroy
but only myself
for i am the forest and the fire
smoke
wind
earth
fire.
You say i'm dangerous to be infatuated with.
"You can get lost
trying to navigate
through your mind
along your skin,
that is the forest floor.
And then you'll be trapped
when the fire starts ablaze
and you won't try to run
because you will be distracted by your beautiful burning light
and your beautiful burning forest
your beautiful burning skin.
You won't even feel the burn.
All you will feel is your body pressed against your own
and your hair tickling my skin
like flames
and your burning fingertips brushing along my body
making me feel alive
and your lips softly brushing against mine
like the leaves of a tree."
He stops and looks up at me,
"but i will stand in the flames and i will hold you
because i am not afraid to be burned,
not if it's by you."
"But what if i burn out? When there is no forest left,
when the flames are gone
when there is no heat
only my cold beating heart."
He smiled and kissed my forehead
"then i will watch you grow new tree's
and if you can't
i will plant seeds
a whole new forest will grow,
and then i will give you a match."

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.