i really thought this was it
you say

and then we are both crying

later in the subway
station
you sit facing
me and
i lean against you
our arms encircled
i count the
breaths
as the trains
brush
past

Sometimes
I start to think
you are rooting
for us to go to hell
so you can
have more interesting
friends
I'm sorry if I haven't
cut it
like some perverse pimp
you think of
yourself as
so much better
so much more knowledgeable
so much more.
you revel
when she dips
herself in
the shadows
of sex
spirits
smoke
when you're
not
exactly
too
far
deep
yourself

tell me who you
think that you are
please
I'd really love to know

I just don't get you
anymore
you are see through
and I
hate it
how you
can be
so
shallow

Poem from March 5, 2013 at 10:53 pm

i wrote a song about you
but it was all wrong
and i didn't want it to tell the truth

too good
i don't know if i like that phrase
it's not good to be an extreme.
to differentiate oneself
from the masses
is to make one seem odd
to be on the opposite end of the spectrum
not somewhere
nice and safe
like the middle

if i reach out my arms
will they stretch on forever?

when we stand in yoga
i place one ahead and one behind
look out over my fingertips
and instantly I am a warrior

a quasi-Mulan
standing here in my
sweatpants under
the grating
yellow lights

you have never
given me a reason
not to believe you

so i will trust you

exhale the jealousy i feel
stare daggers at her of course
but exhale the tension

turning loose and letting go

it is funny
to see my past self
enraptured

when i see you now
so clearly

i do not understand
how you could have been so expansive
to me then

how i could have filled you
up with hopes and dreams
and
wants

how i could have written such
long poems about you
and dreamt about you looking up
at me
and swooned when you placed
your head on my shoulder

how different i am than before

My Father

with veins like tributaries

of tradition

i imagine him

on dark green

benches 

young

filling up his pages with

words in dark

black lines

colorful ideas

draped between

his dreads

i don't know how you
can consistently move me to tears
i feel as if my
heart hurts
with all that i want

i have never longed for
space to disappear
this much

i have never felt
so
topsy
turvy

the way i feel

i'm writing about the way
i feel
when i am on the top
of a truck
bouncing around
when there
is wind in my
hair
when for all the world
i feel free

i'm writing about the way
i feel
when i can lay in
the snow
when the frost makes
my lips all the
more
red when i walk
in the door and my
edges are
wet

i'm writing about the way
i feel
when i lie exhausted
next to you
when i can feel our
breathing in sync
when our hands
lie intertwined
and i feel so endless
in this darkness

i want so much
to fill these pages up with words

one loves to see their own
handwriting sprawled across the page

can i make doodles for a living?
is that enough of a job?

can i get paid to watch the water?
to sit on benches with you
warm

in the spring sun

i wouldn't want to be paid
for such
a pleasure

Stanton and Forsyth

we sit
in the playground
with our bags at our feet

the air is of spring
i am pensive
you are quiet

we have so many moments

like this

we speak
of them

i try to drape them
back into
existence

with remembering

you listen

i ask what you are
thinking about

you tell me
eight months
is a
long

time

there are
secrets
in these halls
words are
whispered into
walls
fingers pressed
against the glass
people unaware
they pass

do you know
my name?
is it written
plain
across my face?
spelled in
freckle
constellations?

(agenda book scribbles)

writing
my mind
slipping
between the
space in
my eyelids
is endless
slip between
the lashes
revel
in the
cracks