9/06/18

I’m a long way from the ocean.
For salty air,
I renounce my despair
and end up among the waves.
I can’t whisk away
every time I have day.
Some days, I’m alone,
even though you promised I would
never be.

-how do I stand beside you when you’re always at the ocean?

8.01.18

I have the heart of a musician but cannot stay in key to save my life. For years, I was distraught knowing there is a passion that I cannot fulfill, but then I met you. I have the heart of a musician; I hope he doesn’t want it back.

-the right key

7.09.18

He says that I have been making so many metaphors that I am starting to look like one.
I fall in love with those words, before asking for an example.
“Which metaphor am I becoming?”
And to my dismay, he can’t think of a single example.
It seems I’m always intrigued by the ones that say the right things,
but I’m also a sucker for things in writing:
the details.
Right now I am sitting in my car and wondering to myself:
Do I want someone who thinks of me as art
or
Do I want someone who makes me into art?

-the specifics

12.03.17

For the last few months
lay a yellow glass lantern
broken in the corner of my bathroom.
People seem to throw away glass once it shatters.
Something, once whole,
now far too broken to piece back together-
but we don’t throw away broken people,
…unless we do?
I realize this is a faulty comparison.
What could I do with a lantern
that could no longer fulfill its purpose-
one that could no longer hold
Light?
There isn’t a chance for restoration-
Unlike a human. 
Scratch that metaphor. 
Perhaps
I will look at the glass as a reminder that
Things break.
Whether I decide to keep the glass or toss it,
I cannot bring it back to what it was.
I can see it, I can touch it,
I can let the shards shred my skin if I wish…
Or,
I can recognize what was 
and make room for the next lantern to come.

-I have a problem of making everything into a metaphor.

11.02.17

At least I mean what I say when I write.
You don’t write; you speak.
You speak rather eloquently,
But what does that mean
Since you don’t seem to mean what
You say?
I hold onto your words
That aren’t on pages
Until my pen makes each one eternal that night.
I linger and rest in the eloquence,
But we both know I shouldn’t.
For I am someone who likes words,
And you just talk so damn well.
Maybe you’re afraid you can’t interpolate your words on paper.
However, you can do that with the ones you’ve spoken;
I shouldn’t have been surprised when you did.

-After all, your spoken words were written by me.

10.29.17

Tell me about the comet that destroyed you:
the one you swore was a shooting star
until it came crashing, hauling towards
the inner workings of your castle:
towards your mind.
Tell me about the days you laughed at
the otters and they laughed right back at you.
Tell me about the months that seemed like minutes
because that’s how hard you loved her.
Tell me.
Not because I’m asking-
but because you want me to know you
as much as I want to know you.

-I have comets, otters, and minutes too.