all i want
is to read the braille
that is written on
your skin
when my fingertips
leave trails
of goosebumps

[she is everywhere.]

the twinkle in her eye
has diffused
into the atmosphere
and become an
element
of the air.

the sound of her
keeps me
warm
and her arms
are an orchestra
of their own.

i want to study her.

i want to
memorize
the muscles of her legs
and count her eyelashes
when she blinks.

i want to read
the curve of her
hips, create
new words
suitable
to define her shoulders.

i want to watch her
sigh, and feel
the clench of her jaw.

i want to wrap myself
around her and
introduce her to the sun.

[i want to understand
what it is
to hold her hand.]

i.
there are two
different
faces that i see
when i close my eyes.

both are lovely
and bring mist
along with their
heartache

ii.
but neither will
bring their gaze
to meet mine.

iii.
she saw me, once.

iv.
i retreated
into myself, as i
always
do.

v.
i fixate, i
know.
it might be a
coping mechanism.

but her lips
were beautiful
and her hands
fit
in mine
and i think

vi.
i might have loved her.

vii.
i saw her, once.

she squeezed back
when i took
her hand, and

viii.
i still have
the piece of her heart
she slid
across the wood
into my grasp.

ix.
i see them both
when my subconscious
has the reins. (it
makes me wonder
if, perhaps, i
haven’t quite rid myself
of the self-hatred
i’d shed with the season.)

x.
(i’ve been
teaching myself
not to
blink.)

[simon says jump.]

would it surprise you
to know, i
wonder, that when
my mind wanders from
the space
that surrounds me
it goes on
magnificent journeys
to find you?

the first thing i saw
when i
first saw you
was the way
you crossed your fingers
when you smiled.

[simon says stop.]

(you are safe
with me.
lace our hands
into a ladder
of bones
and don’t let go
until we’ve found
the top
and it’s time
to leap.)

[simon says touch your head.]

would it
surprise you to
know, i wonder, that
you’ve drifted
in and out
of my subconscious
but when i rise
in the afternoon sun
your role has faded
to little more than
existence?

[simon says stand on one foot.]

(i’ve been affected
in the most
basic
and essential ways.
you wrote your name
over my head and
grounded me.)

i wait for you
in the dark. you try
so hard, but i
strain my eyes, beat
my toes on the ground
hoping for a sign
that you felt
the humming
of my nerves.

(your arms were anchors.)

[simon says stop.]

you
aren’t real.

the fist that
closes around my heart
when your face
appears in my mind
is a simple
projection

(albeit, one i am
content to
believe).

the pictures on the screen
have been gathering
dust
and grown blurry
with time.

(lights flicker
but the mirage won’t go.)

it’s been two weeks, and
i miss you.

and i miss you.

it was clear
from the beginning
that we were
not
a match.

(years
mean a lot
to the world
and my stride
was much
longer
than yours.)

yet from those first
simple words
there was so much
more
to be said.

(i’m an old soul
with a
young
heart.)

there was something
in your expression
the day the mail truck
passed by your door.
i saw the clouds
that threatened your eyes
with rain
and suddenly your hand
was a magnet.
no sound escaped my lips.
all i wanted
was to envelop you.
it was instinct, a
force
inside my chest.

(who am i
to deny nature?)

i do not sleep
on a bed of bones.

i want for us
to belong to each other.
not you to me and me
to you, necessarily
but the both of
us, separately, to belong
to an entity that is us
both, together.

i want filtered sunlight
and sunday
afternoons and
lying on the floor
-heads together, feet pointing
in opposite directions-
with music
quiet
in the background.

i know
i know i know

it was never my place
it was never going to be
me.

tangibility
was a made-up word
but i thought
maybe
if it sunk its fingers
deep enough
into my flesh
the line between
“probable”
and
“plausible”
might fade enough to cross
with a bridge built of
“maybe”s.

i’ve a bad habit
of only letting myself
ache
for the things that are
so minutely
out of reach.

(a heart half-cracked
a mind
beaten down
a life twisted by fate.)

just once
i closed my eyes and smiled
because really
aren’t all injuries the same
if they heal?

i.
i ask you only
to remember me
as a statue
in that
despite the earth’s
rapid
furious
careening through space

ii.
i am still.

iii.
i appear made of
stone, sometimes, but you need
only tap me on the shoulder
to know.
(life leaves its
marks and
sometimes bandages
don’t do it justice.

iv.
sometimes walls have doors
that can only be
opened
from the inside.)

v.
your heart weighs on you
for each day
it is filled further
and you daren’t let any
spill over. but what
you must remember, dear
friend, is that

vi.
as the universe of possibilities
extends forever
outward, so does
that space in your chest
reserved for such things as
love, inward.

vii.
i am here. i stand
at the head
of your terracotta army, laying
in wait underground, unmoving
until called. i am
dust
and i am dirt
but i am one of many, and

viii.
i will protect you.

you with your
ink
and your words
which drift over air, carried
on currents of
seamless eloquence.

ix.
i am a
statue, in that
i can always be found.

x.
i am still.