i knew the moon too well
to fear the night.

my favorite color is green.
not just any green,
but the green that is almost dark as midnight.
green that when you look at it,
smells like damp moss and fairy magic
green that seduces you with its richness,
feeling like the rush after a decadent sweet.

my favorite place to be is the bus stop down the street.
i like to go in the early morning,
or right after dusk falls.
watching the cars go by
is a long-sought-after peace
that keeps my soul intact.

i can't tolerate onions
in any amount.
only when cooked slowly, sweetly with love
by the fire of my father's laugh,
will i endure the sharpness of the plant,
if only to see the joy on his face.

i love the rain
my favorite band is the velvet underground
i get nervous on airplanes
i'm still afraid for my mother
my favorite memory is of my first bike
i wish slow walkers were made illegal

you see? i can open up.
i am communicating
finally
at last
i am communicating
why is it not enough
now or ever

i think i've realized
the ballads of your virtues
do not do you justice.
details of your murders
twisted to be heroic.
i pride myself in remembering things
no one else knows
like
how sweetly you sung
the softness of your cheek
the way your laugh bubbled up inside, infectious.
i am glad to have those memories for myself
call me selfish
but you were always
my achilles

-love, patroclus

there is one language of love
they tell me
i try and try again
but i think my tongue is tied.

we are all open books written in an old language
waiting for someone to come and translate
our story
our words.
be patient
the translator is coming.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

i was always an open book
just written in a dead language.
all the translators were wrong,
time and time again
until you came along.

i trusted you with my heart
carefully encased in a glass cage.
“be careful,” i said.
“it’s fragile”.
you nodded
and took the cage with two hands.
how did i not notice the greed
that guided your fingers to wrap around the bars?

is it possible
to view the past with an affectionate eye?
will i stop judging
critiquing
cringing
at every thing i’ve ever done?
what is childhood
what is innocence
if not for the blissful ignorance that accompanies it?
i miss being a child
to be free
uncaring
i could change if i wanted to
but i guess i fear change
who doesn’t