Maybe effervescent
isn’t the best word for it.
It’s … like a fuzzy feeling too.
I can feel a swelling
of joy, deep in my stomach,
my heart. It’s sweet.
I know I said I’m
living in the moment,
but god, is the future
coming quickly.
You keep calling me back
though; please
keep doing so.
To think too far
is scary.
To know you will read this,
also scary.
Yet,
I type these words
out as if no one
but I will know
their true meaning.
I wonder how many
poems contain the word
effervescent.
It’s a fun word,
right?
All bubbly and bright
and such.
I feel effervescent.
(I wonder how many
poems contain
that word twice.)
I’m trying something new,
to live in the moment.
It might backfire,
like that old Ford truck,
but you like to live on the edge,
so I’m trying it out too.
I feel something
this time around
that I did not expect.
If you asked me to
define “something,”
I wouldn’t be able to.
There is so much
and so little to it.
We remember them.
These words sit heavy,
layering my tongue
with a thick mucus,
sluggish, warm —
a reminder.
I feel for them
as I think about
this life,
this body,
this existence.
I could be you
or you I, given
different circumstances,
hopes, dreams.
You are feathers and bone,
sunshine and moon dust.
Every raindrop,
every falling leaf,
every dandelion seed
knows your name.
What makes it the right time?
I suppose only you (or I)
would know that.
Yours has come and gone,
beautiful in shape,
in essence,
in love.
I struggle on,
searching for that glimmer
everyone talks about.
As night creeps forward,
I hope for a new dawn
with the setting sun.
I can learn a lot about
someone based on what
they’re listening to.
It’s like a tool, music,
a source for understanding
another’s internal state.
You may listen to things in hopes
others will notice, to make people
think of you in a certain way.
While seemingly fake,
as if putting a false face
on for the world,
I think there’s a hidden truth.
The fears or desires you have
are reflected in the music,
whether or not intended.
My music taste
may be one of the most
intimate things about me.
If you scrolled
through my library,
I hope you wouldn’t pity me,
think me insane or
desperately sad.
It’s damn honest,
more so than most
smiles or laughs I give.
I yearn to share music
with whomever wants to listen,
but I’m not ready
for follow-up questions —
like the ones I like to ask —
because to lie feels
like sacrilege and yet,
how can I tell the truth?
I will always listen though,
ready to ask if you are okay.
I gazed at the moon last night.
She was bright, even
through the clouds,
casting silhouettes
across the pasture.
You told me about light
and how the sun produces
tiny, tiny, tiny particles
that penetrate all matter.
I asked if that made me a
tool for light —
if you strung me up
like a chandelier,
would I shine for all below?
While no slipped from your lips,
I was already miles away,
following this stream of particles
in their journey.
I learned about space
yesterday.
Most of it went over my head,
like the number of light years
separating us on different planets,
and the non-linear timeline that exists
outside human conventions.
When the sun finally explodes, that light
will take just over 8 minutes to reach us.
What would you do in that time?
If these were our last 8 minutes,
would you let me take your hand in mine?
If it were storming,
would you watch the lightning dance
across the sky with me?
I’ve been waiting for inspiration as if
it were a bolt of light.
I’ve been thinking about you,
without any understanding
of what it means.
The thoughts are strange,
persisting within the state of limbo
that’s attempting a coup in my brain.
Maybe I’ll find the nerve to speak
them aloud, swift and breathless,
imitating lightning.
Maybe I won’t, letting them
blister and fizzle in the heat
of white light.
Either way, this light shines
with no dimmer, no off switch.
Do you ever feel forgotten?
It’s hard,
to feel like people see right through you;
to think,
it wouldn’t make a difference if I left;
to wait,
wanting someone, anyone, to acknowledge you.
(I)
I sat in silence,
having given all my energy up
to a conversation that never carried.
I don’t know what to do with it,
this feeling.
How do I call someone in
when they appear to not care?
Why do I continue to give energy,
if I receive none in return?
(II)
I sat, disconnected from them,
both by distance and phone static.
I had nothing to share,
feigning a pre-occupied brain
for the lack of substance.
What makes a relationship real?
Is it only showing up in the hard times?
Is it calling once a month to check in?
Is it this system that never changes?
Because I’ve tried, tried
to be more present.
But my presence isn’t the issue
when I am the only one there.
(III)
I see you see me,
but these words in my brain
can’t find you fast enough.
You show up, over and over again,
as I think I do for you,
yet there’s something missing.
It feels like there’s a kink in the hose,
a bubble in the syringe.
It must be me, right?
For my head is full of poison
that I don’t want you to hear;
for my heart is broken
in so many more ways
than you know.
One might tell you to turn inwards,
to find peace with self,
but isn’t happiness only real when shared?
Death calls out with her haunting mannerisms,
and I sway, like the pines creaking in the wind, not breaking.
I struggle to understand this world,
to see the lack of empathy that pervades conventional thought.
I search for compassion, for a trickle of warmth in the eyes of each stranger.
What is compassion,
if not twine tied around your finger and mine;
if not butterfly wings moving the breath of wind;
if not love bleeding out with every word said?
Where is the reason,
if this hand can’t grasp yours or theirs or theirs;
if people are dying and dying and dying, alone?
When will we heal our broken ears — mend these tattered hearts?
The cold wind is persistent, swaying the trees, limbs bending.
Maybe there’s a lesson here, confused by the rustling of leaves.
The sky looks like cotton candy,
and it’s reminding me of you.
You always said those were your favorite colors,
the outrageous pink — so misunderstood —
and the bright blue,
brighter than the blue in my eyes
the day you said you liked me.
You also loved the sky,
talking about the stars
and gazing
and the moon
and swaying together at night.
I told myself I wouldn’t write another poem,
yet, here I am,
filled with these words I didn’t intend to think
nor write.
I saw you today; did you see me?
I tried to avoid you, mostly on purpose.
I don’t feel neutral towards you yet,
but I don’t feel pulled either.
I have to stop.
I think now is the time.
I thank you for all
of the inspiration.
I thank you for all
of the sweet moments (and hard ones too).
I thank me for all
of the care, even in the darkness.
I just, can’t. Anymore.
It’s all too much.
That’s a common thread,
if you don’t remember.
Everything is always
too much, and yet
sometimes not enough.
But this poem,
this set of poems —
I think it’s time to move on,
to move forward
from what ifs
and what was.
I need to heal
outside of these words
because these words,
as beautiful and heartbreaking
I think they are,
only perpetuate
my bad brain musings
and habits.
So, this is
goodbye.
This is
the end of something
I never intended to start.
This is —
this was —
the story
of us.
So It Goes 