in how many ways can
the same thing be said?: when
your eyes first met mine, all
stars in all skies skipped but a
single heartbeat. inside my
own, winter called it quits and
frozen garden water crept in
tiny rivulets out from
solidified arteries. and i,
collecting all misplaced
palpitations like specks of
blue from an afternoon,
unfolding, watched the sun
set on an endless standstill to
let just one night trickle
through. one chorus of stars
was all it took. one million
lifetimes. a million millions,
intertwined.
                     all pages in all
universes could not even hold
the first word of my essay
upon the ways one heartbeat,
one simple glance, could
move each celestial body two
inches to the right, save you
and i.

we
hung up our mutual fascinations
at the door, on coat rack hooks,
tarnished like the afternoon was
slowly pouring into.

speaking in short sips from *****
mugs, i realized i couldn't even
figure out how to like you, when i
thought i had loved you so dearly.

the story goes:
i bought your love, commercial
and diffuse. i bought your love top
shelf in ****** bars. i bought your
love at k-mart. the fluorescent
promise on the display case
cupped small hands around my
face, covering my faltered eyes,
and fed me to you on ornate
teaspoons like quartered
mandarins.

no.
i can't do this. i can't do this to you,
to me, to this grand ******* world;
this ugly spectacle of ceaseless
movement around us. i can't let
you be a mistake. i've collected too
many. you'll be lost. you are lost.
you're lost. you're lost.

now, i only remember you when
i'm trying not to.

my heart is a river, and you were a
chemical spill,
were every fish,
every streambed,
you were every fleck of shale,
every mote of dust,
the cumulative gravity of
all galaxies in one instant.

and what, now?
you're just gone,
and
i'm just breathing.

two seconds,    i planned
just one moment to love you,
but  those two seconds    drag on:
                          two hundred days, a smile, a night's passage,
                            two years, another winter;
                  leave, return, repeat.
this cycle of wanting you,
  and never wanting to
                       but, who am i,
           to tell me what to do?
                              two weeks, a pulling of sinew:
                                            an arm loose,
                        a finger,                   tracing lines on the floorboards
                                   'cause i don't
                                               want to stand up,
anymore.
                           i'll just lie here,
                      ok?
            like i lie to you,
every time i don't speak,
hoping you will,
hoping you'll say,

                   you're not sorry
anymore.