to hear from you

soothes me. tendrils of insecurity

that wrap their way around my arms receding

with the reassurance of the memory of your touch.

biking to school today, a song comes in from the other night,

and I blush involuntarily, a shiver of pleasure inside at the 

last time I heard this song, context: in your room, in your bed,

mind numb, dopey, skin on skin, skin on skin. this is the antidote

to the fire the other arises in me, suddenly everything burning

I can never be enough, can't know what's on his mind as he walks home

if I even am, if anything of this is, even the smallest hint of jealousy

obliterating my mind overrun with ants and anger, swarming with scorpions,

ready always to yell: revenge! traitor! cheat! and you - you are good - and you

are pure - and you are mine all mine and only known about by those who I let

not those who take these good basic things and split them in two like crackers

to dip in their coffee. even if I cannot expel these middle school girls from my life

(like cockroaches they refuse to die) I will not invite them to dine on my secrets.

I will find a way to wave to them across the water. Let others chat with them, that is not

my affair - after all I am not a puppeteer. Let my own friendships be enough, let me trust in them

and if and when the hurt comes, I will break like a damn in my sorrow, 

I will flood the city and wash it clean and I will leave no one, rejoice in no one,

but myself (and maybe, you).

little bits

Last night, jumping around,

my hair flying, feeling like I

was a figment, a filament, free,

Rozi under the blue lights across 

from me, dancing.

---

I have so many things to say to you

that I am never going to

some things are like that

tough and go

words aren't everything you know

visions are like memories

like images in the puddles of the street

pass me by like light shadows on the ceiling

rhythmically

---

The streets of copenhagen 

in the dark of the morning

talking games like kids

to let it be simple and deeply flawed

to not obsess over this

(But I am an artist.)

---

And the light comes to touch the buildings 

lightly with the back of its hand

lingering like the scent of 

someone who has left,

but you wish had not.

the only way through is through

the only way through is through
the only way through is through
the only way through is through

finding myself taking care of myself
learning to be myself making myself
is a lifelong process. I keep fighting
resisting I will rise above I will endure
I will survive and I will, but I will also
surrender.

 I'm having trouble finding myself

amongst all the drowning

the words the thoughts the over and unders

the worries like the panic I saw in the woman's eyes

at the coffee shop, normal but crazed, with a certain charge

that said: don't get too close. and I sift through all this

like dirty laundry, smelly, hot from the dryer, tied into knots

you will never be able to untie, I cannot tell what is clean

what I should wear and what I should get rid of

all the while looking for something true a glimmer

somewhere is there something I can hold onto.

me ananya and michelangelo
each end up with one cannele from
my saved food box. I eat mine
with a cup of ginger tea in my room
from the top, as though it is a mountain
I am decapitating. I hand michelangelo
his outside his door and he is surprised
flattered thank you soli thank you takes it
dramatically opens the bag and smells it
(a token of my appreciation, I say,
for lending ananya the bike). ananya takes
theirs in a plastic bag, wrapped up in their backpack
with their dark bread and danish cheese, folded into the
knapsack for the airplane, all the way now in london
where they text me: they are home.

slowly

you don't have to like every piece of me for this to work.

give me every affirmation I crave like the morning sun,

the warmth of the words on my skin.

I don't have to give you all my thoughts, all my personalities,

for this to contain something true. My angry, my ugly,

my innocent, my wildly unapologetically gay. 

(these are all me and I bring them with me everywhere.

and yet I do not need to switch through them like channels,

waiting to see if one will scare (or entice) you.

this is not a game, but in some ways it is.

I do not have to pull the strings perfectly, 

or even at all. we can both be responsible for ourselves

you and I. And I can relish this moment. the intimacy

of something spoken and true. the trust in the space

between me and you. as you close the door, your voice saying:

I'll see you soon 

(can I give myself enough space to process this? slowly

and without a fear of change)

I like thinking of you

somewhere nearby, playing drums with sticks in your hands. the same fingers

that touched me, made me feel light, tapping on the cymbal now, wide and shimmery,

like an unzipped smile, I let myself fall out an ocean on to you (how could you possibly

catch all of me? you weren't supposed to). foot on the kick pedal

like the heartbeat of your chest, my ear pressed against it, your narrow frame I noticed

the angles of your face as you slept holding me in this created intimacy (none of it is

perfect and it need not be to make me smile). the snare sharp and quick like intakes of breath

like your palm on my back and closer and tighter and collapse us into one, back and forth,

a trill. I like thinking of you still, back straight at the kit, knowing I have seen you, tall and naked 

in the darkness of your room, and now you are clothed, and now you are not mine, somewhere

out in this city playing the drums, in my neighborhood even, maybe still with a hint of light

from me, from yesterday, in your chest, in your smile, in your eyes.

joys of today

include the little brown children holding hands

walking through the streets of copenhagen

toddling along, led by their headscarfed teachers,

backpack-toting, curly haired and coffee colored with little matching earrings.

or the sky so beautiful I wanted to just sit on the counter

and watch the clouds, pink and white go by, awe sudden 

and impenetrable, engulfing. how can we live in such a beautiful world?

how can we do anything but look at the clouds? or the

two girls in the courtyard, blonde and riding their stick unicorns,

galloping along the paths, like they owned them (and they did).