The lights went out
with my pen mid-stroke,
and me
mid-page, mid-chapter, mid-book:
I had thousands
of words left to write
moments hoped for and
testimonies yet to be shaped.
At first I convinced myself
it was an error of chance,
that I could write a beautiful book
I could make a happy ending,
if only I had more time.
But I had already written
too many indelible words
and the tear-splattered pages
dried bitter and resentful
devoid of life and love
and begged of my fingertips
to leave them alone.

Could I please
read you
before you write me?
I'm tired of being the first to care
and the last to know.
The world wraps
my heart around its fingers
like rings of red
and pushes its pain
in my mouth
and I'm coughing
and crying
and aching to
feel an ounce
of the love I've donated
to last causes and
apathetic souls.
Hear me, this time, please
look me in the eyes and
listen: see
how the thumbtacks tremble
trying to hold my skin
intact.
Please,
please, please
let me read you and find
you're a seamstress
you'll write me in cloth
and wrap me in words
take out each pin
and start again.

I want to fold at your feet like
paper
crumpling
under
water
dripping
sweetly
from your mouth.
You care
you know I’m thirsty and
you decorate me
you plate me; you’re precious metal
you encircle my neck, my wrists, my fingers
like jewelry.
You put air in my lungs, gently
and
you watch me breathe.
I could not
I cannot
tear myself away
from your doorstep:
you warm me
like nothing
and no one
I know.
You think it’s funny
when the blood runs from my fingers
you hold them, cold and white
and I can’t help but laugh
with you.
And I forget that I’m cold
I forget where I am
I forget that there was ever anything
before you.

and in an instance,
time sits still
Or rather,
it lays on its back
and stares at fan blades
frozen between moments
of air.
It closes its eyes
and forgets how to listen
for ticking
and beeping
of second hands
and alarms.
It forgets
its personification,
a dehydrated runner
who knows nothing beyond
the ache of concrete
against its ankles
and the quiet screaming
of its muscles.
It forgets
what it is or isn’t
supposed to do or be
and suspends the world
in a flash of serenity
too quickly forgotten.

I love you most now
as I kneel on bathroom tile
cold and vomiting, your palm just
above the small of my back
spreading fire and forgiveness
and hope and healing
through every trembling muscle.
I love you from
the sixteenth floor of my apartment,
as I careen towards the pavement below
because you've always been there
with open arms
even when you aren't here.
You wondered one time,
what would it be like
if we started over?
But I know now more than ever
we need every broken bone
and every sawed off cast,
with our Sharpied signatures
in high school handwriting
in order to love each other
as fiercely and messily
and fearfully and soulfully
as we do.
Because you hold all my mistakes
and all my forgiveness
as you envelop all of me
and I you.

I saw her
yesterday
climbing the stairs,
outrunning the blonde cascade
tumbling down, down
down her shoulders
outrunning me. I should have
known I’d never be safe
or good,
or sensible, not
with her in the room
I can’t move,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t speak.
She has me liquified
she’s an artist,
so I let her do
what she does to me
because maybe this is
my highest purpose,
to be her paint
for I love the feeling
of her brushstrokes
so I let her
muddle me into elemental puddles
and I’m glad of it, too.

You are evil.
Did you know?
Or were you blessedly unaware
that you exceeded the limits
of Earth?
This is not heaven, honey
this is the closet
where saints run
to cry.
And you are here
which makes you
holy and broken
and a lover of mine.