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.