You have
the kind of voice
that makes poetry
sound like water
running
from a faucet,
calm & gentle.

The kind of voice
that makes poetry
sound like a baby
giggling,
syllables bubbling and burbling
happily

You have
the kind of voice
that makes poetry
sound like love:
passionate
& knowing

There is a woman
In my bathroom trashcan,
Peeking one darkly-lined eye
Out from behind
An empty roll of toilet paper.
She watches me
As I sit on the toilet,
Perhaps wondering what
I'm doing,
Perhaps judging.
Probably both.
This sort of revolting action
Does not exist
In her world.
I am real
And imperfect.

She is paper.

I've met a boy
Who gives meaning
To the word
"Understatement."

With his hair
In untamed waves
And his casual green eyes,
He is handsome,
But not in the way
That demands you notice.

Sometimes you have to
Look away
Then look again
To be certain.

I like that.

He smiles
Sort of like my brother,
Except he doesn't show
His teeth,
Sort of like me.

He laughs at jokes
My brother would laugh at,
And it makes me grin,
Even if he doesn't know
I'm looking
At him.

When he was three,
He had all the hope and courage in the world.
I remember.
He took a bite out of the earth
With his tiny toddler teeth,
And swallowed it whole,
Unafraid.
He smiled.
He giggled,
And his blonde curls blew in the breeze
That he owned.
He was king of his playset
That he thought was the world.

But then he grew,
And he aged.
His hair turned brown,
And his curls became mild murky waves.
Still, his eyes shone.
But coffee yellowed his teeth,
So he stopped showing them.
Instead of taking bites out of the world,
The world took bites out of him.
And he was swept along by the breeze
That he once chose to set free.