Drum beats drown out feet on sand
Melodies punctuated by gusts of wind
The cold is only as biting
As headphone decrescendos

Sometimes, there’s water so still and clear that you can see the reflection of everyone else in it.
And they’re happy and they’re sad
And they’re loved and they’re miserable.
And they don’t know you’re seeing them so they do all the little things that people do when they’re alone.
Like wrinkle the nose
And nibble their tongue
And look around
And close their eyes
And wish they were better.
Or different.
Or the same as they were.
They only do that when they’re alone or when they’re a reflection in still water.
And they think it’s only them.
But it not.
They can’t hear me
Shouting that it’s all of us,
Because the sound doesn’t travel far enough through the water to reach them.
So I just watch.
And wish I was better.
Or different.
Or the same as I was.
Until something stirs the water
And I’m gone.

It's hard to know what's real
When the stakes for false are so high
When we feel that one wrong move
May cost us precious time.

But what we cannot know
Should be the least of our fears
What we cannot do
Cannot be the cause of our tears.

We are stronger when we must wait
Than we ever are rushing ahead
And if the grass isn't green today,
We'll hope for tomorrow instead.

There are many things to make a tourniquet out of.
A plastic bag isn’t the best.
But when she’s crying on the phone
Saying you need to come
And the traffic lights seem to hold you back
And the elevator has never been so slow
And you say a silent prayer that that door is unlocked
So that when you finally get there
You don’t have to try to break it down.
And then she’s there, on the ground
And you don’t want to step in the blood.
It shouldn’t matter,
But you don’t want to step in it.

A plastic bag is close
And when you tie it around a spoon
You can get it tight around an arm.
You aren’t sure how tight it should be
You aren’t sure about anything.
There must have been a door
And an elevator
And stoplights
You’re trying to recall them
When you pull up to the wrong entrance,
The one that’s supposed to be for the ambulance
You don’t leave until they take her.
Then you can pull away to park
In some 2 hour zone,
For as long as it takes her.
The run back over sheets of ice
Feels like running into the abyss
You aren’t sure if you did the right thing
You aren’t sure how bad it is.

The plastic bag is in the trash.
She’s lying on a hospital bed,
Crisscrossed black lines
A new design on her arm,
Like a tattoo you have removed
In 5-7 days.
She says it’s your fault.
You did this.
You ruined this.
You didn’t save this.
Maybe she’s right.
You try not to step on her words
Because she needs to say them,
But you can’t really hear,
Because the idea of what could have happened
Is still ringing in your ears.
The sound of What If
So much louder than shouts.
So much crueler than blame.
But What If isn’t What Is.
And nothing else is important.
Nothing really matters,
Except for a hospital bed, three lines of sutures, and a plastic bag.

Waves of wrinkled fabric between me and her might as well be a vast ocean,
Storms of worn fluorescent light from a cracked bathroom door
Echo cracks or thunder that sounds like tears trying to be quiet in vain,
Across that depth, she’s the kind of calm that only comes in the deep center of the torrent, with the world coming apart around it,
I could sail to her, with a hand, with a word, and I might not be bashed against the cliff face,
But then I would have to face her, and acknowledge that no body can be that forcibly still without being torn apart by blunt force winds,
And the true cause might not simply be hot and cold winds from her,
But currents that run just deep enough between us to still be passable if someone, anyone, were strong enough to brave them.

I don’t know how to sooth the tears that I didn’t see coming.

When you know there’s a cancer growing
Like a microscopic wave
Rushing down vessel streets
Breaking down tissue windows and ***** doors,
Then you know that the man you’ve been building up will crumble.

When her memory is going
Like so many gusts of wind
Through a filing room
Full of names and faces
People and places
Blowing the carefully organized papers
Out tangled neurofiber doors
You know it’ll only be a matter of time till she blows away too.

But when a woman’s healthy heart
Gets heavy,
When young, smooth hands
Grow unsteady,
When the one who made it through
May have left something behind,
My pause is not just for effect.

Maybe we think that blessed people
Can’t also be scarred.
That normal CT scans
Can’t hide twisted insides.
So when the problem patients
Are the ones with solved problems,
Our empathy seems in short supply.

But the woman with no pain
May still not want to leave.
And there may be scarier things at home than an empty inhaler.
We’ve written off patients
With an insulin pen.
Sent home with a prescription
For return to life as usual.
We’re caught off guard
And instinctively build new walls
Because we aren’t prepared
For what we don’t think is there.

She was drops into small pools
When she moved.
Splashing up fountains of grace
Rippling through me in waves
Leaving a smell crisp
With fresh possibility.

She was cool leaves rustling
When she spoke.
Breaking the silence in every
Heart between lonely beats
With whispers which drowned
All other sound
And leaving me winded
But holding my breath.

She was crackling firewood
When she touched.
Bursting with warmth
Meant for a hearth far more
Welcoming than my wilderness
Fingers leaving embers behind
With each spark of contact
Leaving me shivering
For her to alight again.

Crashing
Into fringed seas
Sinking down
No air to breathe
Darkness deepens
Sky no longer seen

Drowning
A crushing helplessness
Liquid turns to pain
Entering an unwilling chest
Screams unheard
Only water hears you confess

Dying
Blackness begins inside
The spark fading
As the last flame hides
Regret remains
As all else subsides

There’s a twinkle in her eye
That’s rare to see
Rarer still, unless
She’s looking at me.

Looks forbidden
By lines drawn in the sand
By a pretend me
Trying to be a better man.

But my reflection
Is more beautiful in her blue
Haloed in a happiness
Illicit but true.

At her touch
Electric in fingertips once numb
Shivers up and down a rigid spine
Warmth like a stiff drink in my chest
Energy almost dizzying in my head
Power flowing though every muscle
Desire in breaths between lips
Life in eyes suddenly bright

It’s raining when she steps outside
Freshwater mixes with salt under her eyes
Puddles under feet mix
With puddles in her mind
She breathes in droplets
Already drowning inside.

She said I was warm
Like some sort of compliment
Something I should be proud of
Because it could make someone like her
Less cold
And I smiled
Like I was proud
Like my heat was waiting
For someone like her
To need it

Yesterday, she thought she heard his voice.
Quiet but rough,
The way it sounds when someone shouts for help from rooms away.
She shuffled quickly enough
To find him
Thinking maybe she had made a mistake,
Maybe he was here,
And she had just dreamed him away
A nightmare that seemed real enough
For her to question everything.
But today, she would turn a corner,
And he’d be there,
Asking for a kiss from her,
Before he left for the day.
Or maybe he had forgotten where he put his keys again
Maybe it wasn’t all a dream,
And he was sick in bed,
And was calling to her because he needed an extra pillow for his head,
Or needed a drink of water
For chapped lips.
He was so weak,
He couldn’t do more than take a few sips.
Maybe he had fallen,
She hoped he had fallen,
She prayed that he had fallen,
And just hurt himself,
Even if it was bad,
It was something she could help.
She could lift him back to the bed.
She could call for a doctor,
Get a ride to the hospital from a friend.
She breathed in deep,
Breathes of desperate hope,
Against all odds.
She reached the door
That she remembered being shut,
For days, or maybe weeks,
And turned the ****.
The air was still,
Undisturbed by even sound,
He wasn’t there,
Lost,
And unfound
The silence of an untouched bed
Was inescapably loud.
She closed the door,
And wandered away,
Though she did not remember,
For the third time today.

Her hands felt like waves
The way they seemed to tumble on endlessly
Wrinkles were like tide and wake
This was what he called beauty.

He used to run and jump and climb
To keep her gaze
Write verses and sonnets and rhymes
About her unblemished face.

His walk was now slow
And her eyes and cheeks showed
Countless travelled miles
So many years of smiles.
Made his heart run and jump
And write verses and sonnets
In the language of Love.

Things searched for but unfound
Are the things that carry the significance.
It is not the losing that wrecks us
But the moment when we stop looking
And accept that something is gone.

There was a spotlight on her that night,
Submerging her in a glow that demanded attention.
All else faded to background scenery,
As she performed her unconscious solo piece.
No one had bought tickets,
But they all took their place in the seats,
And waited on baited breath
For what masterpiece she might conceive.

There must have been an orchestra too,
For my heart thrummed harmonies to her every move,
And every voice which spoke
Seemed to be the overture to the entrance of her own.

She conducted herself effortlessly
Composed, with depths hidden just enough
To make all in attendance
Burn to learn the lyrics to her subtle smile.

And when she exited stage right on time,
There was too much awe for ovation.
For no hand among them
Could conceive to thank her with naught but a clap.

But one such hand found solace enough
After such a haunting act.
My own,
Squeezed tightly around hers
As she closed the stage door shut.

When they say it was her fault,
They mean it like when you lock your keys in the car,
Or when you sleep through an important meeting,
Or when you forget the birthday of someone close.
Like a simple mistake of HERS could somehow explain what HE did.

They say it like they can understand it,
But she should have known better.
She should have checked her pockets for the keys, and set another alarm, checked the calendar one more time.
Like maybe then she wouldn’t have been there, maybe then she wouldn’t have seemed like she wanted it, maybe then he would have stopped.

But they, those people who NEVER lock their keys in the car, or sleep through an alarm,
They’ve never been on the other end of the phone.
You don’t need to see the tears
Because you can all but hear them strike the ground,
And you don’t need to see her face
Because no Greek chorus could ever portray fear the way breathless sobs do.
They’ve never had to say “It’s going to be okay”
Knowing full well it won’t.
That it may never be.
And they’ve never felt the type of hatred
That only comes from one thing:
Knowing, somehow, deep in your heart
That you would **** to stop this
From ever happening again.
Die, if it meant
That it wouldn’t have happened to her.

They sit back and blame,
Like they’re too afraid
Of what it would mean if it wasn’t
Some flaw in her that caused this,
But a flaw in him,
Maybe a flaw in themselves.

But if they knew what it was like
To be holding her
In arms that can’t possibly
Say safety enough
To make her believe it, again,
Wanting her world to be beautiful,
Like it was before.
Searching for words
Something, anything, to say.
Finding nothing.
If they knew what that silence was like,
They’d be silent now.

Prime of my life
Priming my life
For some prime prize
Progress provides.

But if prime plans proved
Poorly placed,
And my priming went to waste
What would I have?
What good could a bunch of
“Should”s be,
If I ended up exactly,
Matter of factly
Where I once stood?
Primely dissatisfied
With time gone by.

What would I find,
If instead, I didn’t dread a step
On a path untread
Certainly unsure,
But with a bit more
For me to explore,
Now,
And less up ahead.

I hope you remember me as your favorite hour of your favorite season.

Maybe it's dawn of a spring day, the new morning light glistening through dew drops on green grass springing forth and flowers just beginning to bud.

Maybe it's a fall evening, a slight breeze arousing fresh fallen leaves, choreographing a dance that is at once bursting with life and also a solemn epitaph.

Maybe it's a winter day, soft snow brighter it seems than the sun itself, falling slowly and covering the world in a soft embrace, both cautious and beautiful.

Maybe it's a summer night, stars patiently emerging one by one through a clear sky, whispering of the humble vastness of all that is.

Do not let me be a face or a name, but a feeling, returning to you once again, each year.

Feeling the hole
The piece missing
All that is known is
Something not there
Absence strikes deep
Hurts all the more
The longer it lasts
One cannot accept
What is not there
Cannot lose
Without a finish line
Nothingness is ongoing
Emptiness is searching
Absence is infinite

We grieve for death as if we won't all die one day,
As if death is a cruel visitor, unannounced and uninvited
As if someone stole something that we thought we were holding on to
Too tightly to be torn from our grasp.
We grieve for death like we have been slighted.
Like we have been tricked and deceived
Like we read the court transcript but life perjured itself.
Like we signed the contract
But there was fine print in invisible ink.
Like this wasn't supposed to happen.

They were supposed to be here.
They were supposed to be limitless,
I suppose, we supposed.

We grieve for death because we could not save them.
Because we could not fight back against the onslaught of time.
Because we could not change the span of decades into millennia,
Last seconds into slow hours.
Because we could not control
Even what we loved most.
Because we will die one day,
We grieve.

The infinite is impossible.
And we know that,
In our grief for death.
Until we forget,
For however long we have
Until we are reminded again,
Or until we serve only
To remind others in turn.

It's just a drawing
She says
It doesn't have to be perfect.
But of course it does.
Because it's of her.

She's not perfect.
Not even close.
Her hair doesn't quite lie flat
Cause some sticks out straight
The way a fish may leap from the lake
While the rest swim methodically below.
Her smile may be too small,
Like its still waiting for the right moment to grow.
Her eyes aren't pristine blue or deep green
But a natural, solemn brown.
And that's okay, because I like it that way.

She's not the best dancer,
In fact she's more like to step on toes
Than point them.
She's not very funny, even when she tries,
And she does.
She doesn't run fast or sing well or play chess.
She wouldn't charm you right away,
The way some people do.
And that's okay, because I like it that way.

She's not perfect,
And shouldn't be.
Which is why this drawing has to be.
Because if I get her hair,
Or her eyes,
Or her dance,
Or her charm
Wrong,
She might seem perfect.
And I wouldn't like it that way.

Her smiles were all questions.
Her lips would part as if they weren't quite sure they should.
If she laughed, it was a cautious one,
Escaping out before it could be kept inside
For interrogation.
And there was still a twinkle in each eye,
Two radiant stars.
But their shine was so temporary,
Ready to be extinguished if they were found to not belong.

She smiled the way most people dip their foot into the water of a pool
That might be too hot or too cold.
Like whatever she thought was funny or cute or beautiful
Might not really be.
The world might be too hot or too cold.
And if her smile was a little too genuine,
A little too certain,
Maybe then SHE would be found
To not belong.

I think that when she loved me,
It was a question.
I think that there was still a twinkle,
But it was temporary.
I think she dipped her foot in,
And for once, it wasn't too hot or too cold.

But she couldn't trust that.
She couldn't trust her instincts,
Her feelings,
Her mind.
She couldn't trust that what she saw
Was reality,
Thinking, maybe, she was just caught in some strange dream of a strange world of strange people.
Or maybe, it wasn't a dream,
And everything and everyone were normal.
And she was strange.
She couldn't decide which would be worse.

So she smiled at me
A question.
And when I smiled back,
She had an answer.

When she loved me
A question.
I wish I would have given her an answer.

My mom asks me what I'm studying,
And I say The heart.
Her interests peaks,
Because she's always seen
The body as a work of art.
She wants to know more,
So I give her the brief about pumps,
What makes it faster or slower,
But I don't want to talk about this,
In truth, I haven't told my parents much since I started to go here.

We've studied anatomy,
And how bleeding works,
Biochemistry,
And why swollen red skin
Seems to always hurt.
But the more I've taken in,
The less I've given out.
As if being an expert for only you
Is what becoming a doctor is all about.

I tell my friends my grades are good,
Though I definitely study less than I could.
And after saying school is fine,
I skip to some other line
Of thought,
Like I suddenly don't have the time
To include my friends in this new life
Of mine.
It's not that they wouldn't understand,
Because these pals are smart as hell
And it's not that they wouldn't want
More details than "I'm doing well."
And it's not that to learn,
You have to forget,
About the people who matter,
Who got you where you needed to get.

It's that this world is skull-crushingly,
Mind-numbingly full
And at the end of the day,
Escape seems the goal.
But creating two worlds
Makes it easy to leave one behind.
And I wouldn't want to lose the rhythm
Of my values
Just to learn more medical rhymes.

So I need to work harder
To tell my mom about the heart.
To make these two lives
A little less apart.
How there're really two pumps,
No, really there're four,
And in some people's hearts,
You can hear a dull roar
Of a valve slamming shut
Or opening at the wrong time.
And if you've got pulses in your feet,
You're doing just fine.
To tell my friends the truth,
Instead of sloughing it off,
That asthma and emphysema
May have a similar cough.
Or that there are really two systems
That your body uses to clot.
And platelets aren't the only
Thing that you got.

To become a good doctor,
I have to become a good man.
And I thought until now
That was a simple enough plan.
But it might not just be about
Good bedside manner and empathy.
It might be more about how I treat
Those important to me.
If I can give everyone Zach
Without a dodge or excuse,
I'll become a doctor in training,
AND a doctor in truth.

Your mind is like a meadow
And a cave.
There are moments you sit with me
Among flowers and soft grass
You feel the morning dew
And you breathe in fresh air
As the sun warms your fair skin.

Here, there is happiness.
Here, there is beauty.
Here, there is love.
You smile and laugh
And forget that there has ever been anything else,
Because your back is to the cave.

Then, something ****** your ear,
A cool, sinister breeze,
And you turn to glance for just a moment
Behind.
And when you turn back to me,
It is an apology
From the part of you that turned.
For the part of you that wishes you hadn't.

Then you stand and turn
And walk toward the cave,
Drawn by some unseen force.
Nothing I say can turn you.
Nothing I do can stop you.
From the depths comes a chill
That shivers through your bones
And makes you crave the sun,
But you walk forward still.
Some menace draws you
And I can feel it's power,
At once pulling you forward
And pushing me away.

Until you reach the precipice
Between our haven
And the depths ahead.
Perhaps the warmth now stirs you,
For you turn back, just once,
To look to me.
But your face is not your own anymore,
It is unthinking, unfeeling,
Your eyes empty pools,
Behind them, a mind surrendered,
And I know it is too late.

You walk under the cold rock ceiling
And into a darkness
So thick that all my shouts are swallowed whole
And the light from outside dwindles to a pinprick.
I cannot join you there.
I cannot fight the cold and the dark,
And the menace that lies in the depths.
I can only wait.
And hope you will escape it's hold
And come back here,
To me.

There are moments with you
That I just close my eyes and time stops
There's only your heartbeat and my breathing,
Sometimes in sync,
Sometimes one falling hopelessly behind
In some race to infinity.
Senses fade to nothing,
Because I no longer even feel your body
The way you don't feel clothes once you put them on.
The smell of your skin becomes the way my world smells
And for that timeless moment,
The slight glisten of your eyes
Become my night sky
And I could stargaze into them forever.
I breathe in slowly, and even my air is you.

Your heart sprints forward suddenly,
Without waiting for the starting bell,
And my breathing takes second chair
To listen to your solo.
Then it fades again into the melody we weave.
There are these moments, which escape the past, present, and future
In favor of some other power.
And my world of only you stretches on
To the infinite places beyond time.

She laughed at all his jokes,
And looked at him when he spoke.
She knew his name
Right away
And cared about his goals.

His cheeks flushed hot,
He ignored the butterflies she brought,
Thinking that he
Would crazy be
To think she'd give him a second thought.

But when they embraced,
His mind chanced to change.
Her arms strong
Their touch prolonged
Ignited hope she felt the same.

For the girl who laughed at all his jokes
And looked at him when he spoke
Thought that she
Would crazy be
To think he'd have the same hope.

So, he took the risk
To chance a kiss.
His heartbeat quick
A sonnet he writ
In the creases of her lips.

He lay in that hospital bed like it was already his tomb.
Hardly breathing,
Hardly moving, save for the wisps of hair that some overhead fan
Would occasionally raise with more life than he had left.
His eyes stayed closed, as if deep in sleep
Until I, passing by, was draw to his bed.
Then, they opened.

And this man with scarcely the strength left to blink
Smiled,
More with his eyes than his mouth.
More with his soul than with his body.
He held my gaze within crystal blue eyes
That had become deep oceans
With all they had seen.

A single moment lasted an eternity as I swam in deep blue.
Searching for some sort of truth that I knew not whether I would find.
When I returned, I wasn't sure if I had gained something
Or left something behind.
Then the infinite eyes released a final breath
Then left, somehow, as if they had simply been taking a quick stop
Inside of the man.

And he returned to his bed, his tomb,
And I stayed one more moment before turning to walk again down the hall
On my way to more pressing things.

I want a girl who'll sit with me and stare at the sunset.
But not because it's pretty or colorful,
But just because she hasn't discovered yet
What it all must mean
For us to be looking at it when we all just seem
So insignificant. So small. So young and old,
And out of time.
But lost in time.
And one day, forgotten, with time.
I want a girl who stays up late.
Because she doesn't like that she can't control sleep.
But she'll get mad at me when I do the same.
Because she'll know that to have no dreams
Would be a shame.
And to never lose control
Would be like having no soul.

We reach and we try
To cage an infinite existence.
But what good is that?
Where do we grow,
When we sacrifice real beauty,
For a bit of control?
All of this, the girl I want will know.
And that's why, one day, I know she'll go.
I want a girl that is wonderful as a summer rain,
But just as fleeting.
She will come, sending shivers and leaving goosebumps.
Then she will go,
But not so quick as to forget the rainbow.
And the dew
And the scent that will linger
For much longer than the few
Moments that she was still here.
And later on, when my sun sets,
I will be, again, out of time.
And she lost in time.
Forgotten, with time.

A teddy bear hugs the dirt
Next to a dozen roses bouquetted in grass.
This is not the fate intended
By those who left these tokens of grace.
But the wind and the rain owe no mercy
To lonely headstones and their favors.
And gifts given soon whither and die
So true to their recipients they are.
Stone holds the more steady service,
Stands it's constant post,
Taking no heed of how many letters are read
Or how many tears join night sprinklers.
Choosing instead to hold vigil
Far past when the last teddy bear is left.

She has the same name as you.
And that same wild attitude too.
And that same weird way of sitting quiet
While simultaneously commanding the room.

I don't know her,
And she knows me far less,
But I feel like by the end of you and me,
We were little more than strangers at best.

If I touched her,
Would she feel like you?
Would her hair smell the way
That yours used to?
Would her kiss be familiar,
Or would it feel brand new?

A blue dress shirt
Serendipitously
Left on after a meeting.
Now again needed.
This happy coincidence
So much more forgettable
Than if I had worn jeans
To this event
Labeled "business casual."
How many blue dress shirts
Do we wear with
Sighs of relief,
Giving little thought
To happenstance
As we go about our day
Luckily avoiding
Consequence?

He smokes cigarettes
But he doesn't even like them.
Knows they're awful
And likely will one day **** him.
Buts that's why he does it
In this world we never know
He takes a puff to feel
Some semblance of control.

He walks alone at night,
And as shadows pass,
Secretly hopes for a fight.
In truth, he wouldn't know
How to throw the first punch
And he'd be easy prey
For even the commonest ****.
But part of him secretly hopes
That if he took just the right hit
It might be the perfect thing
To make him forget.

He sends letters to her,
With the wrong address.
She's moved by now,
To escape this city and it's mess.
But the letters never return.
So someone reads them, he thinks.
Maybe it's that he only yearns
To be heard.
So he writes as if she reads,
And it helps him live on.
Still, a letter opened
Does not replace a heart, once gone.

Lips find lips,
Eyes close.
For a kiss unseen
Is sweeter, she knows.

Bodies lock,
Fully intertwined.
Like the last puzzle piece
You hoped to find.

But this spark was
Far less expected.
And for that, leaves me
So much more affected.

There is a chemistry
That reacts with contact,
Somehow unbeknownst to me,
But now, volatile fact.

Breathe out, together,
Scarcely breathing in
Before returning to that small
Paradise where we've been.

There is no world there,
No one else exists.
We've made our own universe
Inside a stolen kiss.

Sometimes I draw things.
Not much, not really.
But recently, I've tried people.
Because that's something real.
Like, take a tree, for instance:
Sure, it's alive, and beautiful.
But it's never going to tell me a story.
It won't teach me a lesson.
It can't bare its soul.
So when you draw it, it's just a tree.
But a person, see, that's different.
You draw a smile or a frown or a laugh,
And that's them, in that moment,
In that hour.
You draw eyes and there's something behind them.
And that's beyond beautiful.
And when you draw someone you already think is beautiful, well,
That's sublime.
It's beyond anything.
The moment isn't enough.
The hour isn't enough.
The drawing will never be enough.

There are few things so certain as uncertainty,
Or so perilous as truth.

Darlings of philosophy have fallen
Effortlessly into darkness,
Failing to find an argument
In favor of the absolute,
Not knowing that their fault lay in
Even seeking it in the first place.

If only more were to quit
Searching for answers,

They might find that it is
Only the question which is worthwhile.

Life does not exist to be known,
It exists to be created,
Made through the living of it,
Infinite, if only we have the courage
To will more than to wonder.

I bet I'll miss the perfect girl
And before you tell me
She does not exist,
You and I both know:
It's all relative.
So there's someone as perfect
As perfect gets,
And she's loads better than
All the rest.

And to me, that's perfect.

I'll miss her cause she'll walk on by
When I'm taking a sip of coffee
And looking at my phone.
It won't even be perfect cup,
And there'll be nothing perfect
On my screen,
But she'll walk on by,
Perfectly.

Maybe she was born in Tibet
And has never left her town.
So we'll never have met,
She just won't be around.
And we'll both grow old
With whoever we may choose,
Never knowing
What we had to lose.

Or I'll meet her,
I just won't see
How incredible
She and I could be,
And I just won't like her.
Or maybe I will,
But maybe she just won't like me.



I bet I'll miss the perfect girl.
I bet I already did.

Indeed, punctuality
Wasn't her cup of tea, you see.
Nor would she choose to lead
If she could follow just as easily.
Some said restraint was her need,
But she seemed more caged than free, to me.

But in the last, she showed the greatest cordiality,
For she was profoundly early.
And there was no one to strike the path,
So she chose to lead.
She must have found the cage's key,
As she stepped off the feeble chair
Into thin air
And a rope spread her wings.

Happy Birthday!
And what a special day it is!
Because of every birthday in your life,
This is the first you missed.

Blue is calm.
It is cool.
It is quiet.
It is still.

Yellow is panic.
It is movement.
It is unknown.
It is change.

Blue is my past,
Where the nights were cool.
Where my mind was quiet.
Where my friendships were still.

My present is yellow,
Where all there is is movement.
Where my thoughts are unknown.
Where my fear is change.

I constantly try to get back to blue,
Though no one would believe me.
My yellow is something
Some dream of, hope for.
But it's not enough for me.
Or maybe it's too much.
The only solace is that today's yellow
Will be tomorrow's blue.

A blade slices deftly through thin skin,
Not intentionally
Though then, it would have been much less surpising.
But caught unaware, now becoming all the more observant,
With the terrible dread of what's to come.
And, for a single, endless moment, there is no blood
Just a fleshy interruption
Of an otherwise unbroken landscape.
A seemless pattern of lines with almost imperceptible depth
Split by one harsh fissure.
By comparison, stretching deep into the world below.
Panic and wonder and excitement at the ****,
A new formation on the old plain
The possibility to make one different.
The skew of lines are unique,
But the marks formed by old pains
Have far more to say.
In another moment, the blood comes,
The brilliance passed
In the maroon tumult from the chasm.
Awe passes to action,
To stop the flow
Effort to restore the expanse to its uncut perfection,
Or better yet,
To skip straight to finding beauty again
In the resplendent scar.

Lofty goals are good, I think,
For success.
But not so good, I think,
For happiness.

Because we have this idea
That if we reach,
Eventually we'll find
Where the grass is green.

But I've been reaching
For a long, long time.
And my goals have been set
Absurdly high.

And once I get there,
Which seems less than 4 years away,
I'll just stretch out my hands
To begin reaching again.

If my goals were about
Having something to feel,
Maybe one day
I wouldn't be reaching still.

I'd be holding.
I'd be keeping.

We don't need to set shorter goals.
We need to set different ones.

Ones that make us smile
Instead of yearn.
Ones that are more about learning
Than what we need to learn.

Change will come,
And we shouldn't forget our dreams,
But as life moves on,
We should remember what it means.

We need to do less of
Shooting for the stars,
And start feeling the beauty
Of standing where we are.

Today I walked outside and it hit me.
I had just finished my last class in this city,
The last time I'd rush to the North Building,
The last lecture on philosophy.

This was the end of an age,
An era in this life.
Now it's on to the next stage.

I don't feel all too different.
Maybe that's just a sign that I shouldn't.
After all, it's just four down, four to go.
More to learn, more to know.

So much more ahead,
It almost seems like only the beginning is behind.
But my journey isn't new
Being a doctor has long been on my mind.

When you've wanted something since eighth grade,
It's not just about undergrad.
It's about the choices you've made.
It's about staying smart and staying safe.
It's about the life you live.
And how much time you give
To each thing in it.

It does feel like something.
It feels like a child learning to walk.
Who will one day run.
It feels like a plant growing taller
To reach a place with more sun.
It feels like more than 4 years,
Or a lot of undergraduate class.
It feels like the graduation
And the evolution
Of the Zach of the past.

So when you're here, leaving class.
There's so much to see, looking back.
I could sigh, thinking of all that's been.
I could lament for this era's end.
But I think I'll remember it all
And smile instead,
And know that nothing can compare
To what lies ahead.

I keep writing poems about you.
Because I don't want to post
Some dumb comment to your page.
That impersonation of you that exists
Only so that people who loved you
Can feel like you're there.
But you aren't.
And they're just posting because
It makes them feel better.
Like my poems.

I wish I could believe they were for you.
That you could read them,
Feel them,
Somewhere.
But I don't believe that.
They're for me.
Me, me, me.
In this moment, your death is about me.
The moment that my pen
Or my hands
Or my thumbs
Put my thoughts to words,
I embrace myself.
Because I can't embrace you anymore.

It's lonely.
This pattern, this cycle.
And maybe if I knew your friends
Would see my thoughts,
I might feel better.
But I can't do that.
I can't show them all that I'm selfish, too.
Even though I know I am.
Even though there's no other way to be.

I can't truly honor you
Except in accepting how broken
You left me.
And maybe that once I wasn't selfish,
Because of how selfish I am now.

We lose things,
People,
And then we go on
Until one day,
We're the ones that are lost.

The clearest mirrors
Are the ones we cannot see
That lie within sadness, the loneliness,
And feed off of the pain
That we feel betwixt the scenes
That life plays out
For an audience which must be
Vindictive, cruel and mean
In order to clap
When the curtains drops at finale.

But we must all share something
With that ethereal audience of sadists
For it is in those moments of self-hatred
That we can most see the part
We play in this nightmarish ensemble.
It was the hunter Narcissus
That stared into the pool
And surely aroused a tumult
Of laughter,
But how sweet to be so enamored
With ourselves that we might see true
Without the mirrors of pain.
Perhaps that pool revealed to the hunter
The cosmic comedy's concealed quadrains
And in that moment he too applauded
The director's dark aims.

I too have looked into pools
Into clean metal and clear glass
And never have I had the epiphany
Of wonder that the hunter had.
But in those moments of deep despair,
Perhaps I have glimpsed
Some of myself in there.
For those without eyes keen enough to see,
The truth must be found most painfully.
And oft comes through with some of
The tomb it was buried in,
So that, knowing what is
Often makes us less comfortable
Within our own skin.

And the audience snickers
To know that in our clarity, we are still fools
And have only a tainted view of truth,
Destined to suffer on to the next miserable cue.

She's so broken
Even she'll tell you that
And I'm not trying to fix her
I'm just trying to be with her

Because when she's not around,
I miss her
Like the sand misses the wave
It's only there at high tide
And until that moment, that one moment,
All the sand can do is wait
Frustrated,
Can't it come sooner?
But then it's there
And for a second, all is fair
All is right
All is complete.

Then, the retreat
The sand grasps at the water
Receding into some unknown oblivion
Maybe to come again,
Maybe not

Shes so **** damaged
But I keep thinking I'm the one not worth it
Because I can't shut up and take it
But it just gets so lonely on the beach

Why can't I be there?
Why can't I suffer?
Why can't she be the sand
And I be the wave?

Why do I even care?
Why do they all?
Every one of them, they aren't wrong.
They she her, and they fall.
They fall and fall.
Maybe she is their destruction.
Maybe she'll be mine.

But if she can slow down,
For a just one second,
I'll catch up.
I'll ride the tide with her
Neither the sand,
Both the wave.

I still remember the flashing lights of police.
Headlines at the bottom of the screen,
The officers interviewed on TV.

I still remember wondering why my mom wasn't home.
She had no reason to be at the school,
But on that day, none of us wanted to be alone.

And I remember being in a little wagon,
Pulled by crying parents on a dark night.
We were small and didn't want to walk.
But my parents knew we needed to see the sight.

Of candles, and so many people come together.
At a park that, honestly, had really never
Been special, until that day.
When we no longer had a right to say,
That we had never felt real pain.

But that's not how the story ends.
No, Littleton was stronger than that.
Those who lost had family and friends,
On who they knew they could depend.

And the city grew up,
The city grew closer.
Not defined by pain,
But by the love that was gained.

And we never forgot,
But we weren't caged,
Tragedy, we said,
Would not be our plague.

So here we are now,
Seems an age and yet a moment has passed.
Our heads again bow,
For those in our past.

And then our heads rise,
And look to the skies.
The tears dry,
And something new is in our eyes.

A determination,
A will to go on.
Through whatever the world throws,
We know that we're strong.

And never again,
Will we wait, scared, at home.
Because in Littleton, none of us
Is ever alone.

As I walked along a path of grass,
Whistling merrily so time would pass,
I happened upon an emerald pear,
And I bit into it, right then and there.
The juice trailed happily down my chin,
And led to a most savory grin.
Then when my fruit was all but gone,
A distraught young man did come along.
He asked me with such true concern,
If of a pear he, from me, might learn.
For he, in haste, this gem had lost,
A fruit he had for worthy cause,
To give to a mother on her death bed,
For “a bite of pear” is all she said.
I, remnant core clutched in my fist,
Knew I had taken what would be missed.
I said no word, and on he went,
Bowed in sorrow, his form now bent.
And I then glanced upon my core,
Eat what’s not mine, I will no more.
So woefully slow, I walked along,
With no more life to whistle song,
Mourning my lack of natural care,
When I spied another emerald pear.

People have seemed so dull, lately.
My life not feeling quite full, lately.
Lonely, but surrounded by friends, lately.
Listening to your favorite songs again, lately.
It's been cold, then really hot, lately.
I've been missing you a lot, lately.

I've been remembering my dreams, lately.
Contemplating what that means, lately.
Wanting to visit you at school, lately.
Been feeling kind of like a fool, lately.
I feel like I've hit a wall, lately.
Wishing I could just call, lately.

I've been drinking like you did, lately.
Avoiding more than I'd like to admit, lately.
There's a piece missing in my life, lately.
No one seems to fit just right, lately.
Busy, you shouldn't be on my mind, lately.
But you're the only happiness I find, lately.
I wish I could lie next to you again, lately.
I wish I had been a better friend, lately.