I’m tired of sitting here in the dark,
waiting to see
if you’ll turn on the light.
There is so much art
and beauty in this world
of course you will find
more
What changed when we spoke
Two things came from that conversation.
One.
It made me realize I was being stubborn
and precious.
I was being little,
not a friend.
Two.
You became more real, more anchored,
and, in being so, something was lost.
Some mystery,
allure.
You became more solid and less a thing of my imagination.
Part of me misses the fantasy,
but, maybe this is the better way.
Healthier.
Like putting the safety back on.
I still don’t know which I like better.
Spectre
You’re a confidence of movement and gesture;
the ego and the storm.
Whatever glow you cast over others –
inviting, warm –
is really just a lure cast for the return.
It’s harmless, really–
catch,
release.
But if I hadn’t seen the wire,
felt the gentle tug,
I might never have known that I was
always
meant to be put back.
A spectre of connection without distance,
and me,
greedy for time.
father’s day
Today was the first time
in a long time
I had to find a way
to explain your​ loss,
this sadness,
without-
by trying-
today was the first time
in a long time
I had to find a way
to explain your​ loss,
this sadness,
while attempting
to not
be either.
Six years of practice
and there’s still no nonchalance in death.
How do you answer
so that nobody
regrets the question?
lipstick
Lipstick marks on a straw
like petals on a flower.
I think,
it was never about me,
it was always about you.
Three years gone and
I finally figured it out.
The peices fell
into place.
the library
I had a dream about you last night.
We went to a library-
there was some party in the back but we kept to ourselves in the shelves.It felt so nice–
we were finally flirty,
finally so playful!
There was an ease and joy that every encounter
always seemed to lack.But even still,
we were nothing.
You only wanted the physical-
wanted to see others even, together.I got it, then.
But I hated it, too.Even in my own sleep-filled stories you do not really want me.
Only in dreams do we have a spark.And I know now,
I know–
this is the way it had to be.
saying my name
You never said my name,
not really.
Just once out loud the last time I saw you,
just once in text to say goodnight.
I think it scared you–
it held too much power.
To say my name,
to hold it in your mouth and
let it flow over your tongue
and past your lips,
would mean I was inside you,
a part of you.
And you, who are too full of yourself already,
couldn’t bring yourself to make any room for another,
especially one so vast,
galaxies and universes swirling inside,
full of form and possibility,
while you were nebulous at best.You couldn’t say my name and it’s no surprise–
to say it, to get that close,
it would consume you,
burn you to ash.
I am too much for you,
with or without a name.
ghost
I feel like I’m playing footsie with your ghost–
you’re not here, but I can feel your presence.
If only you were closer,
closer.But then again,
you were once before,
and yet always
just as absent.
fossil
I don’t want to stop writing.
I may not have much in the way of
skill or craft,
but it taps something in me
that can lay otherwise dormant,
that will spend centuries in dust,
bone pressed to stone,
leaving only the faintest impression
of life
