we have lain here

since 4:18 this afternoon,

kissing filthy slow and

bourbon rich.

you are all

warm shadows, tired haikus,

smoke that does not

escape the window.

i am nothing at all

but the grip of your hands

on my shoulders

and red eyelids.

we have lain here

and let the campfire die,

blowing nicotine into

each other's mouths.

we have lain here

with the moon rising

at our backs, and

slept furiously.

we have gone so far, and

i have no right to say i love you,

to dream of you, to see you

waxen beneath the streetlights,

your body brimming

with emotion.

but i know your aching:

the drag of your heart as you

reconcile my leaving, my return.

and your chest is heavy

with the weight of

what i said.

i don't know

where you are tonight,

but if you never come home,

i will hold this bottle like

an open hand, and

drink for you.

i am so full of wanting.

regret is like a gaping mouth,

taking its time to swallow me whole.

the air has gone damp with it,

and i don't forget like

i said i would.

this body is a vessel

for the apologies i owe you.

it deserves nothing,

but it is full of roses tonight,

every romantic gesture that once

made me so afraid.

you asked me why i left.

if i were to tell you the truth,

there is no good reason.

i had my hands all over you,

and i was so close to kissing you

on the first night.

god, i was so young,

so young and so in love.

i think you were the first girl

i kissed and never asked for more.

(it was enough that i found you

in all this madness.)

and you drink so much

you can't remember your own,

tell yourself you miss me.

i am never surprised

by the emptiness, when it comes

pulsing in the night. and

twilight settles along the horizon

in wisps of grey and violet.

i have lost sleep

thinking about your mouth,

the way you were the only girl

who ever called me baby.

you turned the music

into background noise.

so much for wanting you.

so much for thinking you were

enough. it was just enough

to kiss you, to feel your knees

collapse against mine.

your eyes were all

half-august humidity,

slow burning —

it was young love on amphetamines,

only a reflection of romance

on the surface of the east hudson.

and her eyes, all covered in glass.

she was like poetry in slow motion,

dancing wine-drunk in the rain,

and when she touched me,

i felt like someone else. not myself —

not city-boy, not nineteen.

we walked through a crowd

of strangers, crying

santiago, santiago —

her voice on my skin,

her hands turning my soul

like an hourglass. i cannot describe

how she unhinged my mouth,

how she strained my heart

through my teeth.

wild-eyed and half-asleep already,

still running through the streets;

driftwood fires on

blue-sand beaches, singing

santiago, santiago —

this romance a music box.

she was sun-soft, she had so much

heaviness in her smile;

and she kissed my past out

through my palms, whispering

santiago, santiago —

and these photo-frames,

these rose-petals.

blood pounding in my heart

love knocking on my door

you approach me as if everything

is the same as it was before

but we are no longer an option

the possibilities of us cease to exist

the infinities came to an end

the last time that we kissed

i can never feel the same way

but i don't know how to look at you

no longer lovers or friends

what are we? i have no clue

it's not that i can simply forget you

your memory is engraved in my mind

how i wish you would leave my consciousness

but thoughts of you are all that i find

perhaps you will stay in my mind forever

or perhaps you will eventually leave

i hope i find the answer soon enough

so my heart will no longer grieve

1: beauty

Helen of Troy stares in the mirror 

and wants to destroy what stares back.

She's fifteen. She doesn't know yet

how history will talk about her face,

but she knows that no one 

can love a beautiful woman

for who she really is. 

2: history 

All they ever tell you about Sacagawea is that she led two strange men through her country and no one remembers how to pronounce her name. 

They conveniently forget that all she wanted in exchange for her services was one glimpse of the sea.

And all those dead white men who made her a footnote in history will never know how her heart raced as she gazed out over that vast expanse of blue, whether she wanted to drink or drown in it. 

3: hunger

Eve bit the apple and jump-started the universe,

and now women everywhere repent by starving themselves dead.

Isn't it funny, woman's first sin was her hunger?

Isn't it funny, it was Adam who couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut? 

pretty bird,

your wings

aren’t broken

they’re just tired

of flying

through storms.

i imagine you suspended in water {the photo you sent me, the one where you are impossible and smoothly muscular and strange and in the ocean} 

here are a few memories that involve you

1. your blind grandfather steps on me while we’re lying on the ground

2. {unsure} There are grapevines making their tiny growth-clicks on the other side of the park. You might be saying something, but I’m distracted and don’t hear you. 

I cannot tell where the ground is. I do not understand how I am still standing. Your little sisters are at home. You look at me with tarry pits of humility instead of eyes. You say something else, smile, I understand that you have either said something funny or emotionally relevant. I smile back. Something in me is unzipping. 

3. We sew tiny clothes for dolls in my bedroom. I thread the needles for you because your fingers are too cold and clumsy. 

i hope that you are held together and that we never see each other again. all relevancy has been gathered. you are too far away and too much older and too much red hair spread out in perfect oceanic ringlets. 

people don't change

feelings do

how can she love so much

if that's true

feelings change

but people don't

she can't sleep at night

because she's afraid

of her dreams

songs on the street

whistles from the cars

they whisper to her at night

if he were here

she could at least

pretend to sleep