We're both jocks
We come home from practice achy and tired and raw
We both shower and I go to your house smelling like lavender body wash
You spray versace on your chest and your hair is still wet when I get there
I laugh at the bruises on your neck
From me last time
I say hello to your mother and your dogs and complain about how hard I worked and we compare exercises
And how bad they hurt
Then I sit on the couch
Next to you
Your mother is watching some show but she's going to bed soon
Your house is warmly lit
And laughter keeps our faces wide
My family wonders why I love to be here all the time
Your mother offers me food
Like she always does
And I politely decline having just eaten dinner
You put your arm around my shoulder while you ice your knees and we talk about how we **** our bodies up for our passions
But we wouldn't change it for anything
We talk about how we don't want school to start
How we can't believe summer is over

I leave
Usually
Too late
Or too soon
To me and you
Wrapped in one of your hoodies and smelling like your cologne

Then I brush my teeth wash my face and go to bed

Wake up
And do it all over again.

Dear past me,
I found a suggestion to write to our future self.
And, after much thought and deliberation, I found myself unable to thinks of us further than today.
Although, the past you and present me converge today, we both understand, that even now, our future is uncertain. And, it's all down to present me.

So, dear possible future,
there's a few things I know:

I know the sky is blue; sometimes.
The day before today was yesterday and after will be tomorrow. But yesterday is now certain. Written down on a rock. It is now a fixed point of life.
But tomorrow may not come. The sun not rise nor the moon fall.

Tomorrow is the great perhaps.
Sleeping; waiting to be awaken.
We are Schrodinger's cat. Both alive and dead inside the box of tomorrow.

That even if I can't see myself further than today;
here's to the things written and unwritten,
to the you before and the me after.
Here's to the great perhaps and maybe of tomorrow,
To the us who know,
and the uncertainty of now.
That to whatever yesterday decided,
tomorrow might forgive us.
Here's to the fine line between the past and future,
that it might meet our present and if not-
that it will remember us even if just today.

Here's to us,
anywhere in time.

when you fall in love with an angel, you must understand that there are things you will never understand.

- when you first go to run your hands through her hair, her halo will slice your palm. and it will hurt like hell. she will mend it with the touch of one golden finger, and leave so abruptly that she is gone almost before you even blink. the thing you will see is her at the doorway. terrified eyes, blood stained hair.

(later, she will tell you that she never realized how breakable humans could be. when she explains what it takes to make an angel bleed, you begin to understand )

- ask her about the sky, about stars and suns and galaxies light years away. ask her whether or not the universe looks like a blooming garden. never ask about lucifer - she will become a soldier before your eyes.

and not, do not, donot, ask about god.

do not ask about rebellious older brothers and absentee mothers.

(do not infer about a war you know nothing of)

- in a science class you are taking simply for extra credit, your teacher will be talking about quantum physics. he will explain galaxies and refer to stars as "celestial bodies," but you won't be listening. suddenly you will only be able to think of the way her mouth curls at the sides, of the way her golden skin glows, of all the puckered scars that crisscross her torso, of the graceful arch on the bottom of her foot. celestial bodies are certainly on your mind but they are so much more than gas and light and heat and touch and --- oh heavens ---

when the teacher asks if you are alright, you will flush an even deeper red. supernova.

(at times it is lovely to be in love with an angel. but at other times, it is not)
- beware when you fight, it is like the world is ending. her anger conjures a thunderstorm, and soon the entire country is three inches deep in water. you shatter a picture frame. a bolt of lightning catches the house across the street on fire. you are screaming at the top of your lungs – something about duty, something about god – and there is a crash of thunder that shakes the foundations. the weathermen talk about the storm for days. you flinch and change the channel.

(no matter how right she is, she will always let you win)

- there are times when she won't visit for months on end, and when she finally comes back to you, she is not herself. there are new scars across her chest, and she does not speak. she sits with you in her arms for hours, her nose buried in your hair, and her arms squeezed tight, so tight. she does not cry. you do not cry.

you do(not) cry.

(but you do remember the miles and miles of white scarring. you wonder if angels are as immortal and unbreakable as they think)

his eyes are
galaxies of planets
and orbits
and you see stars
so clear you can
map every single
constellation

he looks at you
like you're his home
like you're a planet
and you've
wound him deep
into your orbit

because that's what
he needs and he knows it

and he looks at you
like you're the only
thing he's got in the
world

because you are
you're his home and his planet
you're his galaxy and his stars

today i thought
of you
and i didn't flinch
my heart didn't
beat any faster
my mind didn't
race
i'm getting along
without you