Question.

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I have a question.
Well, many questions.

I’ve been wondering about them
for a while now.

What,
what if I don’t want to move on?

What if,
what if what I felt with you,
was all I ever needed —
will ever need?

What,
what if what I want is nothing
prior or future?

It scares me to write these thoughts down,
as if to put pen to paper,
or finger to key,
makes what is thought true.

But, is it true?
If I move on, will I sabotage
or break or hurt another’s heart
because mine is so broken?

They say moving on is part
of the healing process,
and though I’ve felt that before,
you seem different.

You,
as if those three letters
represent the whole
of what was us,
just two letters.

I don’t know where
I want to go with this,
or why I thought to write these
questions out for strangers to read,
but maybe,
maybe it’ll make sense one day.

Thoughts.

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I felt happy the other day, truly happy.
The joy came from being apart from everything, everyone who knows of the ache in my chest.

It felt ingenuine to allow the happiness in, to feel together with people who barely know me past my last name, yet…

I drove away shaking, literally shaking with joy.
I was myself separate from all of my parts and the past and the baggage of everything.

It scared me. How could I feel joy with this heaviness settled into my bones?
Who am I if not *this* and that and the other?

Fleeting as it was, it left me with hope — hope that one day things will feel different.
One day, I will take a train away from all of *this* to see the sun rise fresh over a scar of blue tapestry.

Scared.

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I froze.
I put my head down,
unsure of what to do.
In the moment, I didn’t know if
it was for me, or more for you.

I stepped.
I slowed and tried to stay
outside of your periphery.
I became hyper-focused
with being invisible.

I dropped.
I hid in plain sight,
spotting beauty in a winter bloom.
Whether you saw me or not
doesn’t really matter.

I froze.
I froze.
I froze.

Of everything, everything
I thought would happen
when we finally met again,
I did not think my instinct
would be to cower, to fear.

Yet, these shaking hands
don’t lie. These eyes,
brimming with memories
of us and you and I, overflow.

I love(d).
I love(d).
I love(d).

It’s been so long,
and I’ve repaved this path,
covering the slosh of tears, snot, blood,
with gratitude, poetry.

Somehow, somehow
the tears, snot, blood
seeped through, my pages
drenched and indecipherable.

I tried.
I’m trying.
I am tired of trying.

But, tonight,
a friend asked if
the moon looked bigger,
and I couldn’t think
of another place to be.

Ponderings.

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Do you think about the dinosaurs?
What about the dodos?
Not the band, the bird.

Do you still have my book?
The one I let you borrow,
oh so long ago, when all of *this,*
did not exist between us?

What is *this,* you ask?
I think that’s up for you to decide.
For me, *this* is learning to grieve,
to keep living even when I’m tugged
towards the unknown.

*This* is finding paths for
distractions to become joys.

*This* is finding energy
and handing it to my heart,
gift-wrapped with a little tag
quoting Mary Oliver.

*This* might be nothing for you.
You might not even remember
all that was…
Hell, perhaps you lost my book.

One day I’ll reach out again,
using the book as both
excuse and knife
to cut the cords wrapped
around my wrists.

Hair.

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Another dream has come and gone.

This one, both like and unlike the others,
featured you.

You weren’t doing anything particular,
at least not at the start.

It was our first interaction in a long time,
but it felt so natural.

There was some greater plot at work,
this dream not wholly about us.

There was murder, destruction,
and a job needing to be done, but

I only remember us.
I remember you.

I sat on the couch,
or, moreover, laid

with my head on the cushion
and both legs flung over the back.

It was like old times,
sort of.

I forgot what my mission was
and where I needed to go.

I forgot that I was strong,
that I was powerful.

I sank into the comfort
of us,

but it wasn’t comfort,
exactly.

It was an unknowing
that I embraced.

Then, you interrupted
the stagnant air of

our quiet moment.
You reached out to touch my hair.

Gently, you pulled locks
toward you, and

I stayed still,
unsure of what this meant.

Outside, a war
carried on without our notice.

I looked at you,
wanting to say something.

Only, your eyes were so sad;
you looked lost.

I’d only ever seen that face
in the mirror.

I wanted to comfort you,
to say,

“Are you okay?
What happened to us?”

Yet, I awoke
with the questions

still on my lips.

Written.

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I’ve written much on
feelings of sadness and dread
and loneliness and pain.

I’ve written much on
being in a state of flux,
confused.

I’ve written much on
how dreams are scary,
and how I wish *this* was different.

I’ve written much on
you and you
and you.

One could say you
are my muse.
You are fuel, at least.

My fire is burning
brighter and brighter
with every word,

every thought,
that escapes my
crumbling mind.

I’m tired —
I think I’ve written
much on that too.

But this flame,
this red-hot sore
bursting from my lungs,

from my eyes,
my lips,
screams for attention.

“Look at me! Look at me!”
it says when peace
comes to visit.

I listen, of course,
and I watch and wait,
a vessel to whatever comes.

Could I mold this fervor,
this light?
Maybe,

maybe the brightness
I yearn for
sits within me.

Maybe I will be
consumed in light —
but not in a fiery event —

simply as a side-effect
of letting whatever is inside
shine.


Break.

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I would let you break my heart, again.
A thousand times even,
if that meant I got to spend more days with you.

I’ve thought about it before,
you and I reuniting after all this time,
the ocean of agony and joy I would feel,
the fear I would foster,
the lack of trust I would eventually shed.

I often think back to what you said,
when we smelled of campfire and despair,
about “not wanting to cause hurt” —
or was it “too much hurt?” Perhaps you said,
“I don’t want to hurt you more.”

Whatever it was,
I doubt you or I ever imagined this.
If you saw my hurt now,
would you recognize it?

Would you recognize me?

I barely do.
It’s all color and sound,
distractions and light.

I keep the cracks hidden,
buried beneath layers of pencil
and fidgeting fingers.

Would I worry about being heartbroken,
again, because of you?

Of course.
But how beautiful,
to be broken by the same person twice.

Seeds.

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What if I aged like a peach, growing old and moldy and moldy until my flesh was gone — nothing left but a pit, and within that pit, a seed?

It feels strange, to be protected by this stony endocarp, knowing that, what it holds inside, is a spoiled embryo, diseased by inner turmoil.

Maybe I will get better. Maybe this hard seed coat, sealing in my grief, my agony, will one day split to release the pressure of all it contains.

(I kind of like the pressure. I’ve spent so long collecting memories — beautiful and sharp and shiny as new sea glass — to feel something, anything.)

But today, today my seed coat is a bulletproof vest; it is a cellophane wrapping; it is my shelter.

If I was to shed this coat, heavy with heartbreak, maybe I will feel born again, naked to the world and what it means to experience ending love.

(What if I stayed though, just a little bit longer? It’s warm here, crowded by my growing radicle and the memories I keep tucked beneath my cotyledon.)

If you read this, would you understand my words? Would you cradle me in your hands and carry me away from this musty fruit basket to give me a new home? Would you know to plant me in shallow earth? To give me a hearty drink? To let the sun shine down?

Would you give love to help me grow?

Snow.

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Snow fell through
my window last night
to lightly kiss me on the cheek.

It was soft,
like the wings of a butterfly
brushing across white knuckles.

It was sharp,
like the memories I have of us
on that mountainside.

It was cold,
like this feeling in my toes,
my stomach, my heart.

How dumb it feels
to still make wishes
on every angelic clock reading.

Yet, if anything roots me to this Earth,
to this lifeforce,
it’s ill-directed hope.

So, I sit here,
watching a snowstorm
between leaves of my monstera,
hoping for a sign.

It’s beautiful —
the landscape so changed.
I would share it with you

if I had the right words to say
or the gumption to reach out
or the hope it would mean something —

anything.


Eas(i)e(r).

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It’s funny how distance
makes the heart grow fonder.

I thought *this* would be easy,
but I also thought *this*
would be different.

Let’s be friends, you said.
Well, I’ve tried,
over and over again,
but nothing seems to stick.

Maybe you wanted to let me down,
gently.
Maybe *this* is too hard for you —
friends — for reasons unsaid.
Maybe I’ve played *this* through
my head too many times
to understand.
But I thought *this* would
work.

I want(ed) to be in your life,
in whatever form,
because you are worth
the heartache.

Yet, what I am doing,
does not serve me —
nor you, I suppose.

(I would drop everything,
everything,
if you needed me.)

But what does that mean
with how we are now,
and this world we live in,
and this skin I cannot shed?

I’m trying, trying,
to set myself free
from this tether of
ligament and bone.

I don’t know how to break it,
but damn am I willing.