There comes a point
when people start asking
“what are you doing?”
instead of
“what do you want to be?”
We are supposed to
stop inventing ourselves
as if we do not change
with every breath.
Love can be manufactured
by anyone
who can slow dance.
A moment under the lights
with a favorite song
and hands on hips
can send shivers down spines
and hearts and minds
will beat and whirl
when breath touches neck
for no matter how many people
are on the floor
they’re playing
our song.
Tired of starting every thought with
me
me
me
and ending every line with
you
you
you.
We started out so whole
but when something is
smashed
pieces get lost
and puzzles are never as pretty
when they are incomplete.
Every day other lives flash in and out of our own. We all spend countless moments with people we may never see again. Waitresses collect tips and tired eyes from strangers passing through town. Taxi drivers offer some a getaway from the worst nights or a gateway to the best. We pass hundreds of strangers on sidewalks daily, each with a different walk. Some are dragging their feet, eyes similarly glued to the pavement. Some are not much more than a blur, rushing past and leaving heavy footprints behind in the dust and melted tar. And still others are dancing, feet skimming the ground and shadows twirling on dusty ledges.
We may never know of the universes held within these people, but if one locks eyes with you, you might glimpse something extraordinary.
I may never say
much of anything
but if I can explain
how you look
with streetlamp shadows
dancing in your eyes
or how your voice
can make me
pause
just to listen a little closer
well,
I think I will have said enough.
You are every word
that I scrawl between the lines
of my favorite poems.
Smudged and imperfect
and trying to analyze beauty
for which I have no words.
Everything seems like a better idea
at three in the morning.
When I wake up
and peel away the blankets
and the night’s dreamed scars
I will see how harsh
the sun is on my decisions.
I do not want to be
liked
as if someone can just click
a thumbs-up of approval
for my existence.
I want to be
desired
and understood
by someone
who speaks
like fountain pens write
and whose eyes
are unafraid
to catch mine.
It’s amazing
how some people
never seem to
run out of words
when I cannot find
even a handful
to explain how I feel.
There is no need to explain —
as the moon goes through phases
so do we
moving from empty to full
and fearing the dark nights
when we are empty once more.
I seem to go years
between kisses
as if they’re too precious
or delicious
to have too many in a row.
Not too many, now, dear
you’ll ruin your appetite.
Can’t I just have
one more?
There are some people
whose voices reach past your ears
and fill you
like a sunrise
or a warm cup of tea
and sooth you
no matter what they say.
At the end of
the longest day of the year
the sun had faded from the threads
of her cutoff jeans
and the streetlights
were all broken.
She passed warm windows
each containing
a story
but the curtains were drawn
as she passed
and eventually her path
was nothing but darkness.
Things I want to ask my mother.
Is it true
that you learn something from every heartbreak?
(Some lessons
seem more hidden than others.)
How long is it
before your best friends
become the people you once knew
and how do you find the ones
who become part of your forever?
(I feel so guilty
for leaving any behind.)
When does a job
become a career?
How many lights did you leave on
through the night
when you lived by yourself?
When does fear
stop keeping you awake?
(I could fill volumes
with everything you’ve passed along
but my never-ceasing questions
are why I cannot sleep.)
Are you happy?
