Count to ten, then come find me
Tangled in the curtains, as always,
Trying to hold still.
I get so distracted by the birds out the window,
Shifting from branch to branch,
Always singing a new song, taking off
Whenever they please;
Sometimes, when nobody's looking,
I try to fly too, but of course,
I never land on my feet.
When I hear you laugh that you've found me,
I pull the curtains tight around my shoulders before I
Count to ten, then come find you.

We ache so much,
Our hearts look like paper snowflakes,
Worn as badges on our sleeves,
They scream—
We are still beating.
You've got a laugh like a helium balloon filled with too much air;
I've got a smile made out of paper mâché.
We walk a tightrope just to meet in the middle.
We're not acrobats,
But we want to believe that
Falling together is better than standing on solid ground alone.
You promised you'd hold me until the lights went out,
But sweetheart, it's been dark for so long,
We've created our own spark,
From the warmth of our breath
And the steady rise and fall of our chests as one.
We may break each other's hearts,
But we stay and pick up the pieces,
And though we have cracks,
We'll fill them with gold—
I swear, they'll write about us one day,
Long after we've forgotten
The wind rattling the glass,
The kettle boiling over.

Do you remember my wool sweater:
How the fibers used to catch on your wristwatch
And tangle themselves in the buttons on your checkered shirt?
Those loose threads said what I was too afraid to—
Don't let go;
Stay just a little longer.
Fiber after fiber, they unraveled,
Until that old wool sweater was tattered and frayed and scattered—
Softly curled strings on shirt edges and neckties,
A memory begging not to be forgotten.
Even after all this time,
I'd bet you still find specks of red on your pillowcases
Or on your jacket as you ride the bus to work.
I hope you do.

When there are no cards left to play,
We start a new game.
There's never a winner,
Just two broken hearts and
Smiles that don't crinkle the eyes.
Do you remember when I buried my face in the plaid cotton of your shirtsleeve and cried,
'What do you want from me?'
'Everything,' you whispered into my mouth,
Your voice muffled as if we were breathing underwater,
Though we were both unprepared to drown.
Darling, if only we'd realized that when you took it all,
There'd be nothing left for me.

I might miss you—
Every hole in your jeans
And flyaway hair;
I might have saved that crooked smile,
Kept it close,
Carried it with me to the bus stop
And the bakery that makes my favorite egg sandwiches.
Maybe I counted every stutter, every heavy blink of your eyes as you fell asleep.

I might have stared your demons in the eye,
Kept them away during the night
(I've never been scared of the dark).
I could have kissed the scars on your hands,
The bruises on your knees.
It's possible you meant more to me
Than the autumn leaves
And the stars that stay frozen in place outside my window.

Maybe you knew me,
My bright lipstick and lack of self control,
The pale birthmark on my neck;
You might have memorized every curve of my lips,
Pensive sighs,
As I let you see the fear behind my wide blue eyes.

Maybe you filled the cracks I'd never admit I had
(It hurts just to say it now),
Found the fragile pieces and wove them into a blanket to keep me warm.
It's possible you saw the lies I carry,
The spiders with their gnashing teeth and blood-red eyes,
And stood by me all the same.
Maybe you called me, suddenly, on your way to work,
Surprised to find yourself wanting me, though we'd just left each other.

We might have been in love,
But those three words burned in our throats,
We could only choke out ashes, not even a spark.
Now every trace of fingertips across our hearts only brings up dust,
Settled deep in chambers and arteries for heaven knows how long,
Made from the memory of my lipstick, the holes in your jeans,
And everything we might have had,
If only we'd allowed ourselves to recognize it.

I'm so tired of my heart,
The way it breaks and wants and hates and
Feels so **** empty,
Despite all the love being dropped through the mail slot,
Signed and sealed,
Though left unopened in piles by the door—
None are from you.
I'm so sorry, I just can't
Whisper into phones late at night
And hold hands under blankets and
In the backs of cars.

I'm tired of your emails.
Give me longhand, scribbled out parchment;
Show me the ink smudged on your palm,
The ache in your wrist.
I used to think that mysteries were more beautiful than absolutes,
But it's so much easier to love you
In the afternoon—
Windows open, sunlight streaming in,
A warm breeze kissing my neck.

You gave me empty pages;
I filled them with poetry.
Darling, did you ever love me?

What happened to us was something like
what happens to flowers when the vase shatters,
Or what happens to misplaced keys;
Someone was careless,
Didn't pay attention,
And now we're left with empty spaces.
What happened to us was something like
What happens to the moon as the Earth spirals on its axis,
Or what happens to the trees as it starts to snow;
We were inevitable, natural,
But cyclical,
Never able to withstand the darkness,
Or keep together through the cold.
When you left, you took my pride with you,
Swore it was all my fault
Until I believed you.
I let you think that you meant nothing,
But you were the moon and I was the tide,
Without you, I'd cease to be.
In some other life, you'd be an artist, and I'd be your muse.
Long after we'd gone, they'd hang your paintings at The Met and say, 'Look how much he loved her.'
I'd still be a poet, of course, only this time
My poems would be taught in classrooms—Picked to the bone by children who'd scribble verses on their arms,
Wishing for a love just like ours.
Maybe tomorrow I'll feel better, but right now
Everything hurts and I wish you were here.