across the atlantic,
under cliffs by the water in the rain,
southern eyes meet arctic blues and ask:
do you ever think about the oceans -
how there are unknowable creatures living under the surface of each one:
some of them beautiful
some of them hideous
some of them terrifying
some of them kind
some of them deadly
some of them lost
some of them found
some of them hiding
most of them undiscovered;
more than mostly unexplored,
miles deeper than the tall of the sky, much less the shore
i’m asking because i can’t understand why —
when i have always been afraid of heights —
do i look at you and know that all these same some things are living behind your eyes, the way i know they must exist under all of the oceans and i am left wanting all the unknowables:
some beautiful
some hideous
some terrifying
some kind
some deadly
some lost
some found
some hiding
most undiscovered;
more than mostly unexplored,
deeper than the tall of the sky, much less the shore
and i am left wanting to fall instead of fly.

the moment i looked up i saw your face
a screaming alarm and barely awake, early morning
dulled by your illuminated gaze
( dark eyes sparked so bright, the stars complain at night,
ironically you’ve been calling me starshine )
it’s supposed to storm today
my bones can already feel the rain, every pulse point an ache
we will weather the weather anyway
sunrise bleeds peach pinks through baby blue
i’m taking pictures of you
( without you here )
an everywhere, nowhere
both a part of this far apart from this
slow it down, closer to me
i wake only to talk to a dream
my hands offered ( cold ) to a hot chocolate lover
and we’re both burning but only inside
and we don’t make the obvious promises
but one day, some day, on that day
honesty, you’ll be right there beside
a tipped chair and two tangled sets of five
trust in truth debts we never truly need - please believe,
i won’t forget how you’re astonishingly real
despite combined hestitaion to feel,
high pressure pumping blood into ghosts
hearts in hands other than their hosts’
our ribs built separate houses for our traded homes
you could have anything you wanted from me
you don’t ask
but i’ll play every simple song i know
and when that’s not enough i’ll just hum notes
we have time
we have time
we have time

of the three things i love most;
out of everything else in chaotic existence
that would heartlessly end me;
there is only one in which i would be
happy to die by the hand of.
please don’t let me just freeze,
please don’t let me just crash,
please don’t let me just burn,
please don’t let me just suffocate,
please don’t let me just drown—
but let me fall so hard into your arms and
so gently against your mouth,
that it feels like all these things tortuously at once
and i will blissfully
let my existence
fade out.

i have a great affection for admitting the truth
and the truth is this:

i have a fondness
for words
but often find myself struggling
to string them together
in the right order.
on certain days, in any order.
i simply cannot sway them;
they do not operate as a medium
for what i am meaning to say.

the truth is this:
words do not obey me
as easily as they do you.
i can turn dying leaves into new grass
and ash into glitter
with careful effort and mild pride
but you create
galaxies out of nothingness
and just as easily erase
predetermined notions of my existence
by humble mistake.

A favourite mug with a chip at the top of the handle and the depiction of a city never visited by me directly but by you, missing me;
a cherished item put back each time with silent worry for wellbeing and the fearful notion that hands other than mine will not care for it properly and my return will find pieces of Paris instead of a whole skyline;
one of a near matching set, a half gift and one of the only physical ones given to you, with love, from me.

the way I suspected it in March, the way I anticipated it in April.

I knew it in May that I would not mind another whole summer of burning if the flames were my cheeks flushed red and your crooked smiles; a sip of coffee too hot for the tongue from across a table; a sacred place shared miles and miles from either of our residential states but entirely a home.

I knew it in May that the heat would break with the rain and I would dance to a list of songs with your name written as the label; it would get easier to breathe on days you were present and harder to speak on days I was not; I would never mind if good mornings continued to bloom flowers behind my breast plate while good nights lingered through soft dying rose petals.

I knew it in May that I would love you; that I may have already loved you for some time since but I certainly would never not love you again.

They told me you were there in the room;
I could hold you if I wanted —
but you were no longer you. Not in any context I knew you as.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I guess. Is my mourning selfish?
I said: rest easy, you deserve peace but I just kept thinking:
How could a whole person be condensed into a box?
Purple, marbled, cold; one I held as an excuse not to let go.
See, I had seen you yesterday but our farewells were not final at the time;
how could a chance to say goodbye make up for all the love lost —
when lost really means somehow ripped away entirely
and still left inside of me anyway?
What am I supposed to do with it now?
This will happen to all of us.
There’s a ghost in the living room —
but the ghost isn’t you, either.

I watched the moon kiss a sunrise —
through the fingers of skeletons coming back to life.
I saw it all through closed eyes open wide,
I wept dirt and flew down concrete lines;
I felt the embers in my lungs turn to ash outside.

I am nothing, darling, but insignificant —
I may not make history in my short time;
I may not remember when the fire completely dies;
I may never be extraordinary —
but for a moment —
for a glorious, aching moment
I was magnificently alive.
I was alive.