2.26.18

Judith wears an old school heart.
She’s an empathetic record on repeat,
replaying each tune like it’s never been played.
Her vision presses far past the moonless,
rebuking every cecity.
And if you look in her eyes:
her old school eyes,
I promise you’ll always find something new.

-and so will she // Happy Birthday, Judy

12.05.17

Here it is Tuesday, December 5th,
perhaps it is where you are too.
Lately I’m not where you are.
I haven’t been paying much attention to calendar dates
or what time my head meets my pillow each night.
I say “Goodnight” but
I can’t claim I sleep at night-
unless night is just another word
for the start of an early-riser’s day.
You see,
I’ve been sleeping at 5am
and I only know this because you
have been too.
As far as I know we are together,
unless I know nothing.
But, if I know that I know nothing: that is still knowing something.
I know it’s raining outside
and you love the rain;
I wonder if you
love me like I love the rain.
If we were together 
I’d ask.

-paradox is your favorite word, right?

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.