in the
dry air between
the beauty of poetry
and one too many
poetic licenses.

and suddenly we are two
acquaintances who don't know how
to have a conversation
walking four feet apart
back to where we had our first date.

you're not going to ask me why
I'm
picking away the scab on
the back of my hand,
though you can see in my eyes how
it hurts
as they spill salt water into
my open wound
because nothing has changed
I still won't let myself get better

There's an inch between
sunrise and sunset:
the sky's walls flatten
me, stretching my skin thin,
taffy turning interminably
over the earth.
Another inch between
this bated breath and the next
almost enough space for
a claustrophobic prayer -  
my occluded wheezing
heralds the marriage of
laughter and sobs.
When my cheeks wetten, I
watch them wrinkle
as the years drip down my chin
one inch lingers between
my face and the foggy mirror,
as I contemplate giving
an inch of love to the girl staring back.

It took a lot of convincing, but
after a few years she finally believed
that I was only staring because she was beautiful.

Your shirtsleeves are wet
with every word I wish I didn't say
and I look away, hoping that if
I don't see you, then you won't see
me.
But you stare,
and you do what I should,
thinking hard before you speak.
When you finally do,
I could cry all over again
because I still taste love on your lips
after I've ruined myself again and again
and again you show me
you are heaven on earth
as the dirt from which my soul was made
is flooded with the stardust in yours.

and blood is shrieking in my cheeks
a concert of passion, ushering tears
the sudden pressure suffocates every
word trapped in my throat
and I desperately want to scream
at you
in hot pent-up pain
that if I didn't love you
with every ounce of myself,
I wouldn't care -
I wouldn't get angry
or speak before thinking
or cry into your shirtsleeves -
but I do care
enough that I can't hide
the mess you make of me.