Secret

Elbows catch, a blur and a lack
Of precision. No blood, small jolts,
Another homeless hope slips.
Trivial. I pick it back up, determined,
Before the wind blows it away.

One less nobody single, and I
Imagine the air around your mouth, you,
Imagine kissing me the story of your life.
Slow down and don't leave out any details.
Some things are out of focus already
And your voice is a secret.

I've traveled far to get here,
Moved slowly enough to melt
And change shapes.
So I did, as I am wont to do.
Sculptor, be kind. Use your hands.
I like traveling to you.

Thirst masquerades as anger
Masquerading as comfort and
Everything changes. Everything.
I want my name to ring like a song,
I want my voice to be the breeze.
This road drives me and not the way
Around. I've got mixed feelings
About my perspective. It washes over
My sleep in focus and
I go under.

Happy faces finding each other
In public places, a comfort of some kind,
Invisible and obvious. Envious. Still,
In that sliver between sobriety and sleep,
Alive, aching with reason and logic
Before the reset of dawn. Anxious to wake,
Anxious again to sleep.

Certain details of your life
Are not lost on me, stranger.
Details as the day ends,
Almost the same sky, almost
The same select moon.
Sculptor be kind, use your hands,
I've traveled long and

I've traveled far to get here.
Moved slowly enough to melt
And change shapes.
So I did, as I am accused of doing.
Sculptor, be kind. Use your hands,
Gently.

All My Lovers Are Flowers

Cold hands and leftovers,
Discomfort, collateral damage. What of it?
Don't bite your nails. Hide your face.
A small imagined sweep of hair
Softly, mine from behind.

Sleep your pattern,
Sleep your surrender,
Sleep your matter.

History outgrew me in time
Then the first snowfall. What is it you want?
What is it you're not getting?
Don't think I haven't noticed
You don't sleep.
What is it you need?

All my lovers are flowers.
The thirst gets the best of everyone.

I could only take so much of the distance,
I could only take so much of those small things
That only existed on the back of envelopes,
Torn, illegible and true.
I begged you to stop picking at your skin, I begged you
To take me elsewhere, I begged you to
Take me home. You never found the words.

All my lovers are flowers.
It wasn't that big of a deal
But I never really got over it.
You set me free but I didn't take flight.
Domesticated, docile and bound.

Sleep your matter, woman.
Sleep your soundtrack,
The mystery, the cold liquid.

Sleep the sighs…

I tried to help,
I begged you to take me elsewhere,
I begged you to take me home.
It wasn't that big of a deal
But I never really got over it.

Sleep your silence,
Sleep your surrender.
Sleep your matter, woman.
Sleep your matter.

The Girl Who Finds Everything

It was more than one year ago, practically two,
When all the clocks stopped.
Primal and disorganized, I levitated.
Just a few inches, really. Nothing much.
I misplaced, then later found, small things.
Pale, I turned to you. You were there
But tried not to be. Your absence was a statement
In itself. You stopped coming by.

The year I lost control,
I made you perfect.

In between songs I heard waves. I tried to explain it.
Maybe it was traffic or trains in the distance.
This was the year we misplaced
The personal space between us. I spun,
And lost my momentum. I jumped ship.
Sleep is a thief and my allegiance is thin.

(Behave yourself, girl. That's no way to manage your appetite.)

I manipulated time to keep your scent lingering.
In hindsight, I kept things in order.
Everything was arranged, just in case.
I almost stopped remembering my hands in your pocket
Taking shelter.

Into the womb of flannel and down,
I’ve learned to pray to the keeper of dreams.
Sleep is a thief and my allegiance is thin.

The year I cried myself to sleep
I made you perfect.

That whole thing about time,
Time heals, time passes,
Well, sometimes it's just not true.

There is nothing like feeling the heartbreak yourself,
There is nothing like death so near
To question the end of every life, the inevitable loss
Of every single loved one.

(Behave yourself, girl. That's no way to manage your fear.)

There are no words that sound real until the words
Become your glass shattering, your world freezing,
Until someone tells you to go, just go,
Because you no longer belong wherever it is that you are standing.
And going is this absurd task when you pack extra tea bags
And eat two sandwiches because you don’t know what else to do,
And your other sister notices you have freckles,
For the first time, outside a hospital room.

Nothing about it is ever real but the hindsight.
I tried to bargain my life.

That whole thing about time,
Time heals, time passes,
Well, sometimes it's just not true.
Time stains.

No one asks anymore, everything is fine.
And simultaneously,

The year I lost you,
I made you perfect.

It Stays Here

Ephemeral attraction,
Something fierce marred
By the scripted cliché of inexperience,
Vague, effete,
I looked everywhere, everywhere.
I'd been ready for years.

Focused forward. Fool, too.
Throwing combustibles into the hot spot,
Somewhere in the vicinity, a carnival, my heart. Yes.
Somewhere a sad girl went home
With the smallest of prizes,
Dressed it up and called it fancy. It was.
Dim the lights and squint your eyes.

You thought I'd let a stranger break my heart.
What were you thinking? Wind, clear the air here.
I can't breathe and I don't like the way it smells.

The sadness creeps up my inner arms,
Drama settles where my skin is softest and white.
Everywhere else is sun-kissed with history.
Tapping the same vein. Again?
Again. Well. Not everyone flies,
Not every time anyway.

Maybe the truth I've been searching for
Lies in the search itself,
Maybe the balance I seek is found
In the seeking itself,
I wasn't going to let a stranger break my heart,
Not in this noisy place anyway. Fool.

I looked through the darkness
When it was best to see with my heart,
Waiting for a scene to come together.
So I saved your place, there's a shadow here still.
Never the girl to play hard to get. Hardly.
It was easier for me to skip past it,
I'd otherwise hold it dear
And never let go. You don't know.

I couldn't let a stranger break my heart,
No matter how beautiful the scarlet scent
Of potential. No matter.
You've never seen a woman devastated
Turn away from you and not look back.
Fool. I didn't take it with me.

Look at your hands.
I didn't take it with me.

Geography

My hips still go soft when I see your name.
You. I've decided you're bad.
I catch my breath.

Leave me with the sound of my name, trailing,
Incomplete. You exit the scene.
I barely hear you asking me with sugar lips,
Barely, and you're walking away from the answer,
One foot in front. Then the other.

Once, not so long ago, I too
Had thought I could walk away.

Since, I've been standing in the same place
So long the roots of these trees bear witness
To my history. I have nothing more to offer you,
Nothing that isn't dormant. Hope springs eternal,
The unfurling of a leaf or a gentler hand
To undress me tonight and linger
Long enough to find the soft curve of my hips.

I'm squinting in the sunlight.
The disciplinary whip of my hair
Against my face is no delicate lover's touch.
This is not you. This is fall. Sadness.
Never mind the invisible pollen of heartbreak,
It's always had a size of it's own.

I'm letting something go. Even with my eyes closed
This has become too big to hold onto.
Two small hands cupped and, still, it wasn't enough,
My plus one didn't stick around and slipped away.
Scorched salamander.

You.
Am I still saying your name in my sleep?

My body had been your map.
I had been a passenger in your hands.
You had belonged to me.
The night had fallen slowly
Against the low drawl of my name.

Are you certain
You don't want a gentle hand
To undress you tonight?

Personal Moth

The intoxicating nectar of inspiration landed closely, fluttering.
I remember looking up, I remember when everything changed.
Anticipation, like bats, whipped through this place
And left a disaster in its wake.

I had an excess of unclaimed love, just laying there
In the winter coffin of sadness. I was feeling adventurous.
I was feeling all kinds of things. Mostly, I was feeling you.
Now I feel out of sorts.

There's a small reflex separating instinct from wishful thinking.
Sadness is the cost of chance. Hope is the paper cut.
The whisper of lilac skies fade, buttery soft. Mail stacks unopened.

I don't know what enough is, I don't know what it would have taken.
I didn't get enough of you. There's a hummingbird in my heart.
There's a butterfly on my mouth. I want more. I miss you.

The memory of fingers is surprisingly visceral. Cruel.
Skin, papery thin, and the scent of happiness. Warmth,
More specifically, yours. Ghost. Flutter, stuck in the branches
Of my melancholy. I'm having to share you with the universe
And I don't want to.

I'll see you on the other side.

You're wicked the way you touch everything you see.
Wicked the way you burn your flame.
I'm not home but I'm somewhere. And I'm in such a state,
Fluttering around you. Birthday cake, frosting and all that.
Your flame is bright and strong, and I'm sad.

As Close to Heaven

The indelible ink of my negligence consumes me.
No mark is yet on my skin is by chance. The sky is yellow.
I'm following you, quickly burning past the price of being alive.

My jealousy is innocuous and lacks true commitment.
The hangover of defeat is simple, and the years go by.

My lips taste of a memory, the romance of citrus.
I lay so close to heaven. So close that sleep
Doesn't know what to do with my body
And dreams come to me while my eyes are still open.
I'm stuck in the middle between you and here.
I want to hear you laugh. I stretch out my hand and touch you.

I wear the silky things you say to me. I am your definition.
Make your wish. I will lay down so close to heaven
That sleep won't know what to do with my body,
And my body won't know what to do with its host.

The sky opens itself up and swallows me. As close to heaven.

Your hands dance, you draw attention to yourself,
The years go by. I just want one thing. It's bigger than the sky.
I touch you so that I can fly.

I run to shed this excess hunger passing as courage.
I run to beat the parasite of appetite. I run as a form of prayer.
My capacity for you is a port, unchecked.
I just want one thing. Heaven. I stretch out my hand.

I'm underwater while you sleep. The sky opens itself up
And swallows me. It's as close as I'll ever get to heaven.
I touch you so that I can fly.

The Accidental Gardener

I was never a waste of your time, this is my secret for you.

Your open hands are my garden.
Spring brushes the hair off your face and kisses you, then,
The little regrets buzz about while the sun starts to set,
Looking for a home, looking for conversation.

I need to find something, and I need
The industrious nature of your permanent flame.

My desire is desperate and lengthy.
New freckles crop up like surprises,
I can't describe the color of your voice,
Or the symmetry of your kindness.
Sometimes, I see you lose your footing.
I see you, I say nothing. I am often kind.
The melody of your cooling is gentle.

This liquid love is your hands
On the small of my back, but only briefly,
Maybe twice. It is also perhaps a choice,
Your breath against my face, intimate gestures,
Cropping up like surprises and freckles.

Oh, and the industrious nature of your permanent flame.

My silence is a tangled mess of improbabilities.
I know what the skin on your face feels like.
Your open hands are my garden.
You seem to have stumbled upon something of mine
That had been blooming on it's own.

I bump into every intimate gesture
You carelessly leave laying around.
I bump into all the small fires you start
And scorch my wings, just slightly.
I localize the damage and cut my hair short.
Now I am lighter. I have experience with burns.

Acting both as my parent and my undoing,
I derailed exactly as predicted and turned,
Completely unqualified to speed into the apex
Of my future with this reckless abandon,
Into the industrious nature of your permanent flame.
Sometimes these things just happen.

I will lean forward and leave you a kiss.

The Kindness of Strangers

What happens next?
The amber of my optimism is limber,
I am powerful and my hair is beautiful and long.
I run my fingers through the discarded math
Of miscalculated risks, soundlessly,
Sitting at a table, watching the scene.

I look down and away.
The men nearby are all wearing incredible shoes,
It almost makes everything alright.
But you, you were never smitten. Not with me,
Not on this side of our season. It wasn't me.
I have never been unbelievable.
I'm quite ordinary, actually.
It used to bother me.

Once upon a stranger's brief delight,
The deliberate half smile of a man just released,
A treasure I carry with me like a shiny stone,
A compliment accidentally left behind for the taking.
A pet to love, and someday lay to rest.

The bitter cold takes your hands,
They feel old, I think of oak trees.
The dogs of Winter attack and tear at the hem
Of my dress, I thought it was just the bad weather.
I thought, maybe if I waited it out. Well,
I didn't think it through. It wasn't me.

The women nearby are wearing their holiday best,
Was the glitter of my laughter never enough?

Once upon a stranger's brief interruption,
The deliberate imprint of a half smile,
An exchange. My hair is beautiful and long,
I am wearing my holiday best.

Patience, Traveler

Trace me. Follow each strand of my hair,
Take your time, use your hands.

My cooling is without deliberate intent.
Private and small, and also pale in color.
I find myself too diaphanous to contain anything
Resembling the flannel of body heat. Patience.
Something I can hold slips.

Life loves you.

Paralyzed by perfection,
I had broken my heart in a hundred different ways. Stupid.
Now I'm traveling to you. I have a map, a pencil and a flashlight.

Life loves you.

How long until every last detail has been misplaced?
How long until the exact shade of this, this...
What I'm trying to say is, this is what I want, how do I make this
Between you and me? Then, how long until the shape of you
No longer contains the things you used to say? How long
Until it is no longer familiar?

Trace me, use your mouth, use both hands,
Say my name, follow each strand, each curve,
Make a circle on my back for each year
That I've been alive. Add a few more for good luck.
I can't reach you,
I can't reach any of the lights that blow out.

I don't know how hard it is to try not to fall in love.
Loneliness has nothing to do but wait,
And nothing has ever been enough. Be my river,
Intimate and quiet as skin.

Trace me by the starlight of a few drinks,
Trace me with the sleeve of my favorite sweater,
Follow each strand of my hair, sit in from the cold,
I am a girl from a nearby town. Come, stay.

Perfect and Gentle

Mechanical owl eyes clicking,
Watching. You're perfect and gentle.
I made parts of songs for you,
A pair of hearts, and also, a bite-size for you.

Sometimes I lose my sight of you.
It seems to me you've been leaving things behind.

I bought the same sheets as you,
Pieces of pieces of me and some pieces
Of you.

Mechanical owl eyes clicking,
Watching. Blinking. Exploring.
Humidity clings me a desperate lover.

Mechanical love-shapes beating,
Clicking, testing the immobility
Of a chain link hope.

Pink morphs itself, reflecting orange. The pelicans dive.
There's a place where the sky is almost white before it disappears.

Memories left by the wayside return to the earth on their own.
Still, I had wanted everything to be so nice.

Mechanical owl eyes clicking.
You're perfect and gentle, my apple.
I have parts of songs for you,
I'll sing for you. I'm watching, still
I may lose sight of you.

The Center of Everything

This is my fall.
This is my rain.
These are my shoes.
Scented weather.
Choose.

Don't ever mouth the words,
not even in the bucket of night. Not even
under the hum of a pulse.

Flight.

Tumbleweed secrets we never shared, (shh…)
Warm voice wool soothes. You, Autumn calm. True.
I'm not to blame for your existence. You stare. It sticks.
The center of everything.

Surge.

Stay still. I'm hanging on by a thread. The nest of sanity redefined.
Trapped in the bittersweet waiting space of incremental cotton naps
between dusk, comfort and dawn. The seasons change.
Six months of insomnia masquerading as sleep. Dreams flitter.

Raw.

This is my fall.
This is my tumble.
These are my shoes.
Choose.

You Belong To The Beach

this one needed work. check back later.

'KBYTHNX!

The Loss Of A Comet

He hadn't shaved in a couple of days.
I rolled over on my side
with such a profound sense of loss.
It was a comet, this kiss.
I was hoping the room would still be dark.
I couldn't wait to write about it,
as if writing about it would define the moment.

As though I was equipped
to handle such occurrences with efficiency,
and a light touch.

We kissed in the kitchen.
He had lots of girlfriends.
He pressed his entire body against me.
This was not my dream.
It was my void, still warm.

Let me tell you about the way he smelled.
Let me tell you about the way his skin felt.

In a single instant everything my other self desired -
Oh, because there is another self -
was assuaged standing in a kitchen filled with people
in a dream so vivid it will become a memory.
Then, a loss.

Pulse

The pulse of the Universe
has a louder beat than my heart.
The sound of believing is continuous,
I am the embodiment of hope, as always.
Continuous, perfect, precisely spaced amounts
of blood traveling through me and my systems.
Energy is a constant around me,
flexible, friendly, and lives forever.

When the energy between us is good,
(Oh, but I love you infinitely.)
When I am dancing with my eyes closed –
this is what I'm talking about.
That's the way things are with me.

I stand as close as possible to the sound
and let the pulse of the Universe
flow through me,
ocean current flow,
dancing with my eyes closed
in my perfect space.

When they energy is good between us,
you know I do, I love you infinitely.

The Saddest Room

The saddest room in the house is me.

The air is still, the light is fading,
the walls weigh down on me like night sweats,
my emotions are a crime,
my words are a prison.

I can type but I can’t eat.
I can answer the phone but I can’t move,
I can't dress myself.

The pillows are all soft,
I wish I were soft.
The colors are all vibrant,
I wish I were vibrant.
I know I’m not asleep
but I still wish I could wake up
and find everything back in place
right where I left off last.

The saddest room in the house is me.

I don’t have the edge of anger,
I don’t have the sleep of peace,
I don't have my lover’s faith in me.

The emptiest room in the house is me.

Some words make no sense once uttered.
They only sound right when unspoken.
They are hard to pronounce
and sound foreign or
like static noise or rush hour traffic.

I have spoken my heart but it is too late,
I seemed to have kept it a secret far too long.
I have spoken my heart but it is too soon,
I didn’t wait long enough.
I have spoken and my words played
a dirty trick on me.
They betrayed me,
they switched each other out
like a child's game or a puzzle to his ears.

I no longer have any words,
and words are like furniture for expression.
I will slowly become silent
until I have nothing left to say,
until we have completely decorated this house
with my silence, because right now
the emptiest room in the house is me.

Buster Napping, As Usual

A ball,
a large warm ball
vibrates into a purr,
a one-eyed, half-closed love pirate stare.

The ears move small movements,
very small movements,
big paws click on the hardwood floor
like a secretary's heels clicking down a hall.
Somebody very cute is rounding the corner.

This is one of my favorite sounds.
More favorite than the sound
of the forbidden pounce on the a.m. bed,
more favorite than the sound
of hunger for food
or love because
they typically sound the same.

A ball,
a large, warm, furry ball
at my feet or by my side
is love just the same
and never less.

On The Other Hand

The other hand itches.
My mother thinks it's money,
she is admittedly superstitious.
At least, I think it's the other hand
but I've never been very sure
which is which.

So, sure, I have convictions,
sure I have facts,
like my wedding ring is too tight
in the morning when I first wake,
but on the other hand,
I'm not so sure about this other hand.

My cats will love me until they die,
I will always love the smell of coffee,
I'm even a little bit vain at times,
but I'm not terribly certain about
this other hand.

I could die before my cats
and they could forget about me.
I could get pregnant and grow
to dislike coffee,
I could but I'd rather not.
The point is that I'm not so certain.
It seems like it ought be
of utmost importance to do so, but
is it really necessary to consider
what's on the other hand?

Because I'll tell you frankly,
there's nothing here. There's nothing
on the other hand.
There's no jewelry, there's no nail polish.
It may, in fact, be completely free
of scars and freckles and bumps
and no one is holding it tenderly anyway,
or leading the way.

The point is, the other hand is just
an excuse, or something that appeases
an awkward query in an uncomfortable
social situation.

So, maybe the other hand doesn't exist,
or maybe it does
and it's really shiny and smooth
and reflective just like a mirror.

Horrid This Happiness

How horrid this happiness
which should steal my words
rob me of contemplation
and hide all my pens
during moments of inspiration.

I don’t know.
sometimes, other times,
I do.

Carried away in the summer wind­
make no mistake, this is no breeze,
bown away with
the tiny blue and yellow spring flowers,
the fresh rain dirt scent of purity,
the sunny park day Frisbee dogs of joy,
pen-less.

I would rather not leave him without my wallet,
I would rather not forget my name,
I would rather not be pen-less
but I’ve been on fire kissing
my wounds away
and this I will not trade for words,
but I would not ask
my words to leave.

Shed

One step, shed.
The curtains undulate,
the pink sunset clouds
of the light reflected
illuminate my sky wall.
It’s dark. It’s Saturday afternoon.
One step, shed, kiss,
pull away.
I know it’s not force,
it doesn’t feel like force
I’m reacting like it might as well be
force.

One step, shed, peel,
pull away.
These layers seem endless.
I’m losing sight of my core
between sobbing fits.

The week before
I cried so much
I broke my nose ring.

One, two steps, shed,
peel, pull, raw.
Who, you and I, are,
two and three.

I’ve been sleeping
with my tongue pressed
against my teeth
and although I’m healing
and everything is going to be fine
I’m sleeping with my tongue
pressed against my teeth.

You help me undress
and, three step,
hold me through the nightmares,
and two step, tell me that
you love me and,
one step, I know
you are not going away.