In a language unknown,
in words truthful and opaque,
in dully shining rusted tones
he spins a tale of love and loss
that you lean forward to hear
and strain with all your being to understand,
because in his twists and corners you find you will Know.
Winding and vaguely present,
with wraparound phrases and
a heart that fathoms and unravels the trickiest of souls.
He Knows.

Something you may not know about me is that I do not sleep well with other people. It's always a very broken, restless sleep and I wake tired and I dislike the first thing I have to do in the morning be to talk to someone.
The reason you don't know this is because it doesn't happen with you. In fact, I sleep better with you. I fall asleep easier and I actually stay asleep and when I wake up I love having you in my arms to press close to and say good morning. This is new to me. But it feels right.

Something you may not know about me is that I've had my heart broken before. Yes, I've loved before, throwing myself into it the first time and ending up with a terrible aching heart that took years to heal.
The reason you don't know this is because now that I'm with you, it's like my heart has never known that hurt. I feel like I'm new to love again, ready to give my all and not knowing what I'm getting myself into it but enjoying every bit of it. This is almost scary to me. But I'm grateful.

Something you may not know about me is when I'm alone, I think of myself as a quiet person. I prefer to be on my own with just my silent words for company, I like calm and stillness.
The reason you don't know this is because I can't shut up around you. I speak like the words will be erased if I don't get them into the air, like I will collapse if I can't make you understand. I just want you to know me. And I laugh loudly and freely with you, because there's a joy I need to express. This is unsettling to me. But I like that I can do it with you.

Something you may not know about me is I have said "I love you" to many people. I love easily and openly, when given the chance to poke out of my shell.
The reason you don't know this is because when I say I love you to you, it's like the first time. The words taste fresh and sincere on my tongue, like they've been reinvented just for you.

This is new to me. But it feels right.

When you're given a meal, the dishes it's placed on are important. It holds good food and is needed and appreciated. When the meal is gone, however, the dishes become simply ***** dishes. A nuisance, really, because now you have to wash them, unless you wait on or make someone else wash them.

People are sort of like that. They hold a meal, something you want. They are important for what they carry. Then you eat the food, and they become ***** dishes. You now have to wash them, get them ready to hold more food... or leave them for someone to clean up after you. Dishes that are never cleaned will never hold food again.

We are all dishes, and we all offer something valuable and when we are emptied we have to be polished again. It's the give and take of humanity.

There's almost no way to write about you without sounding horribly cliché.
(I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
I'm alone and lonely.)
Maybe this makes me a terrible poet.
Or maybe this is what you've made me:
a tangled mess of clichés and needs and loneliness.
All things I thought I'd abandoned long ago.
But still, just let me get this out:
"I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.
I'm alone and lonely."

When I'm with you, it's hard to remember I'm still on Earth
because you are my heaven.
But also when I'm with you, nothing feels more real
because you are my home.
I wish I could erase the miles from the map and have them disappear.
I want to be more than words on a screen or a voice through a speaker to you.
I want to be your hand-holder and blanket-stealer,
I want to be your shopping buddy and house-cleaner.
I want to be your goodnight squeeze and good morning kiss,
I want to be your date and plus one.
I want to be with you.
Instead, I am Here and you are There and Everything is in between.
Maybe lyrics will say this better than I ever will,
but I miss you.

Just keep waiting. I'll be there.

The first girl I ever kissed
was in a bathroom at a dance.
I remember my heart pounding because I was finally telling her,
finally saying something to her about how I might feel,
which was this jumble of confusion and uncertainty and
just wanting to try.
I had been thinking about her for awhile,
because to me, she was the only one who could settle this.
I remember her smirk, and how she kissed me hard,
and my head spun and the world fell away
and it was an ecstasy I hadn’t known before.
She slipped her knee between my legs
and I knew what desire was.
Someone came in and she quickly turned around,
and we pretended like I was helping her with her dress.
I left that night in a whirl of guilt and bliss and questions.
That was my first kiss that was beyond stupid teen pecks.

The first boy I kissed,
(and again, here I mean kissed more than half a second)
he was tall and handsome and wore black jackets.
We got caught kissing in school once.
He said he loved me. I think he believed it.
(But his promises started to feel more like threats.)
I remember being alone with him in a room,
and as we were kissing,
my mind wandered back a year.
I remember I thought of the girl kissing me,
and my mind said,
“wasn’t that better?”
I could hardly stand to kiss him after that.

The second girl I ever kissed,
I knew.
It was a love I hadn’t known before. It made the others seem faint in comparison.
We had so little opportunity to be alone,
but I was addicted to kissing her when she let me.
(She eventually broke my heart.)

By the third (and fourth and fifth) girl,
It was all I knew.

There was never another boy.

I want to write until tears fall from my eyes
and my pen runs dry and I draw silent and still
I want to write you into words I can take with me
I want to capture your being and form on paper
I want to write to soothe the cacophony inside me
I want to pull it out of me, pull me out of myself
in ribbons and strands until I fill a room
I will look at all that was in me, tugging on strings
that have left me empty. I want there to be nothing left.
Hollow out my insides leaving me with nothing but air in my spaces,
leave me with air and pencil shavings
Put all that is me out on display
Maybe then I will find calm.

I want to write about you,
I want to write until I know and understand you so well I confuse you with myself.
I will write and use up all the words in this language,
then make up new ones to describe exactly how 2,630 miles feels like when it weighs inside a heart,
how it feels to smile back at a photograph,
how I recognize voices through doors and it turns out to be a stranger.

I want to write about things gentle and soothing,
things that can act like a surrounding embrace to a heavy heart. I want to comfort myself.
I want language to be like my imaginary friend I whisper to behind a child's hands.
I want to hurt and I want to need, I want to evoke and I want to express.
I want to strike a chord and resonate for ages, a reverberation to last a century beneath the earth.
I want to not make sense and be misunderstood.
I want to cry silently in my pillow,
filled with emotions so human and so real that I know I Am Alive.

I want to find new words for your eyes, your voice, the curve of your spine.
People talk about making homes out of hearts and ribcages,
maybe I can do that too, live inside the marrow of your bones.
I want to fall into your deepest corners and find You,
then I want to surround you with a tender warmth that will calm and douse you
and you will know that you are Loved,
I want you to know that I will take care of you.
There will never be another who will do just This for you.

where are the people
who can’t wake up in the morning
no matter how much sleep they get
and where are the people
that find such comfort in a cup of coffee
who turn to the black liquid sweetened and warm
where are the people
who spend hours alone, just the way they like it
but when someone reaches out,
such appreciation you won’t find in anyone else
and where are the people
who let words fall from their mouths like stones
and words from their pens like precious gems
where are the people
that find heroes in ordinary people
because miracles sound nice but are so unlikely
that the ordinary is just enough, thanks
and where are the people
that remembered to buy bread and cereal
and they let that fill them with such pride
maybe they’ll even get the laundry done too
or maybe that should wait til tomorrow
where are the people
who spend nights turning over in bed
or staring at computer screens
or  flipping pages of books
hoping that tonight, tonight they will go to sleep with good thoughts
and where are the people
who got told growing up that there was so many things they had to be
that now that it’s their turn to become
they are torn between expectation and desire and sheer ability
where are the people
who have already learned that there’s no such thing as an adult
who have realized we’re all making our way in a messed up world
with polite smiles and appropriate clothing
and we are all pretending like we have it together

where are the people
like me
because i think a little connection between us
would make us stop asking
“are there others like me?”