You write my name on grocery receipts
and lose them the next day;
I whisper your name in my sleep,
and forget my dreams by sunrise.
We sit sunburnt on the lawn,
me watching the clouds melt,
pretending not to feel
your eyes on me.
I want to write you a song,
but the words don't make it
from my heart to my fingers.
The sticky notes you leave
on the fridge don't stick, they
slide underneath,
forgotten dust-collectors.
One day you'll remember them,
you'll read them to me and I'll cry,
because you wrote about me,
and I never wrote about you.

if love is a train,
i'm not getting on.
i'll lay in the tracks
eyes closed,
just to see if i'll die.
i know i'll wake
next to you,
so i don't really care
how i get there,
i just hope the train
is coming soon.

i was lost at sea,
dying of thirst
and you were the saltwater.

she was a chrysanthemum,
disenchanted with the sun who stole the water from her roots
disillusioned with the rain who ripped the petals from her face
disaffected with the gardener's boot who crushed her stem
she cursed the wind as it mocked her,
flying light and lively above her head
she met a bee once
who would sit on her petals,
fluttering its wings and staring
as if the world were dry
and she were the last sip of water.
and for a moment she thought
just maybe she was,
but she was a chrysanthemum
in a garden of too many flowers,
and the bee was gone before
the sun had left her to the mercy of the moon.
then one day,
a pair of hands found her wilting.
they scooped her up
planted her in a ***
brought her to a window
and watered her just enough.
she took her first real breath and saw
in the reflection of the window
that her stem was straight again
and her petals were strong and full.
she thanked the hands and
they went on being friends;
they gave her water and love and
she gave them beauty.
now she looks out the window
at the sun
and the rain
and the owner of the boot
and loves them.

will you ever be able to clear
the clouds over your eyes
that cast shadows on your mirror?
it's so dark in here
and you've hidden the light switch
as if neither you nor i
are enough to see your true colors.
but i knew with my eyes closed
from the sound of your voice
and the touch of your skin
that it was always
and only ever you
who could be enough

they say perfection
is nonexistent, but
i have learned
it is relative.