some days we are sinew and bone,

plucked from carcass like afterthoughts and wrapped in rotting linen,

sun-bleached and silent until the marrow is dry,

prettier at the precipice of being nothing at all.

in another room a man with cruel hands is talking about wishes,

wondering aloud if the sound of breaking bones is baptism enough,

knowing it won’t make him feel whole again

but at least he wouldn’t be the only broken one.

I keep reusing my old ideas

recyling words until they turn stale and plastic

I am blank, an empty white canvas

the longer I stare the more my words jumble

jagged phrases scraping the inside of my brain

They fumble aimlessly

attempting to recreate a feeble memory

It's been too long

my words are gone

It's summer and we're drunk on dandelion wine,

your fingers all chipped nail polish and calluses and perfection,

threading daisies into a crown you place on my head like a halo,

giggling as it falls.

I met a girl, once,

who would write poems on the backs of resturaunt napkins

because they were just a little bit magic

and I think this is a little bit magic, too,

this moment, pinned between fragility and forever,

where it's enough to not feel quite so alone anymore.

I don't know if I would call what we have obsession

but the sweetness on your tounge is my favorite poem.

At five foot three

I am

an oblong shape

finding a way

to love

the space I take

we had fun head-banging to metal in the parking lot. i laughed at your crazy hair.

the yellow moon thinks we’re fun to watch.

dont you dare ruin the moment with sentiment. your honeyed words.

how could you, when you know my heart is off limits?

stop trying to make this special with soft words, with the blue stars in your eyes.

this friendship or whatever this is. what are we, you and me?

i’m sick of feelings. can’t you just talk about favorite colors and stupid songs?

no, that’s not our star. nothing is ours. we are not a we. please.

the truth? he did it, and then we were done.

if you do it too, i won’t be able to stop myself from running. again.

yea, we love the same things, down to the note in a song. it’s crazy.

we cry for jack johnson and we’d die to play like jimmy page.

yes, we have the same mind, made of the same things. the colors especially.

heck, we have the same favorite pop-tart. who else likes fruity pebbled waffles?

just leave it there, don’t get into the ‘soulmate’ thing. i don’t want to know if we are.

hope flies, truth shatters. i saw the syrupy way you smiled, my stomach sank. don’t lie.

man, we were really flying down that highway, with the streetlights making it a party.

i held your guitar so it wouldn’t fly out. you looked at me like i was cradling a baby.

probably shouldn’t have touched it in the first place. i saw that terrible lovesick look.

does it make me special too, if i am friends with your most special possession?

stop smiling so sweet and soft like the gritty cotton candy taste left behind. we’ll lose this.

and you knew i was broken, why would you hit me where it hurts like that?

hey, don’t dress like me. 80′s is my era, no stealing, no matching. don’t sit so terribly close.

why would you mess with my head? you know i run without looking back.

and don’t write me a song. that’s where it all ended. the notes whispering about love.

don’t write me a song, you know how that killed me.

my mom pulled up his song the other day.she didn’t know it was the one he made for me.

i cried too hard. don’t do it, when you know its wrong. when you know songs are my love language.

don’t write me a song.don’t strum the strings so soft like that.don’t turn me into a melody

with your glass fingertips, your warm ‘hold you’ eyes. don’t name it after me, my hair, my colors.

i’ll lose you.

and i won’t feel a thing.

there are certain places that

scare me, I could never figure out why

always the places that are meant for

leaving

like parking garages

layers of empty, lifeless concrete

like elevators, metal and miniscule

like sides of a dirt road out

in the middle of nowhere

they are meant for coming

and going, never staying

and that terrifies me

the moment after a sunset starts dying

and fading into black

scares me

because they feel like endings

they feel like places for hopelessness

we flee from them without realizing

because no one wants to live in

what is meant to be empty and gone

I fear being stuck in the middle

forgotten and solitary

without moving forward

like an empty car garage

a broken elevator

a waning sunset

the silence between two songs

abandoned apartments with broken windows

the side of a dusty mountain road

the ugly alley behind a formal restaurant

empty fields

like being alone

I am running barefoot on a wet track,

the red rubber biting into the soles of my feet,

lungs aching,

a metallic taste lacing my tongue,

trying- always trying- to be just a moment faster.

...

but when I'm done

I will wonder if I am enough

or if I have somehow stopped

a moment shy

of magnificence.

I would hide your broken body in the dip of my clavacle

and keep you safe from a world too sharp for your butterfly wings.

I would dry your tears with dandelions from the garden,

letting the yellow petals map constellations between each freckle on your cheeks.

I would teach you to dance in a field of wildflowers,

spinning and spinning and catching you in my arms when you stumble.

I would silence their words with the sound of songbirds

and we would sing along, letting our chirps of laughter join their symphony.

If I could

I would keep you safe.