Tag: relationships

My poorly woven basket

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I told a friend about you,
and you as well.

She related, telling stories
of faceless people.

I leaned into her words,
finding parallels to my story
and tracing the circular elements.

Halfway through she made a good point.

She said we have
poorly woven baskets,
not prepared for all of the eggs
we might carry.

My basket is generally fine,
though a bit too small
for everything I feel about you.

It’s missing a few sticks,
making it easy for eggs
to fall out, and
the bottom sags a little
from the time I
left it in the rain.

As she shared,
we are not well-prepared,
well-adjusted for all of *this,*

cramming eggs into a basket
not fit to hold them.

I am so desperate, it seems,
to feel everything and to
not let go.

If I had more baskets,
perhaps I would know what to do,
maybe I could move forward,

but alas,
there’s just the one,
labeled “you,”
overflowing with eggs.

From another time

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The birds sang so sweetly
outside my window
that evening.

It was as if they knew,
felt, my shifting pain.

Their songs were nothing
like the early morning tweets
or harsh afternoon calls.

Their music carried lightly
across the sky,
like a helium balloon caught
in the breeze.

I stared into the mass of
bamboo stalks and vines,
feeling tears roll down as
I looked for the birds.

I wish I could change things
from the last few months.

If only we could have listened
to those birds together and
talk about the magic of everyday things.

But you don’t believe in magic,
living in a world so black and white
one becomes dizzy of its
ever-changing parts.

I know the twinkle I saw
everytime our eyes met was real,
and that the fluttery, happy gut feeling
was real too.

I would call those moments magic —
something special —
but I know you’d call them ordinary.

You, sometimes

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I still think of us,
together,
sometimes.

It’s never much,
just fleeting thoughts
of what I’d tell you
in certain moments.

I used to think
you could read my mind —
as if my face was covered
in unspoken words.

I miss seeing
your lips quirk
and that playfulness
light up your eyes.

I wonder if you ever think of me
at the exact time I think of you.

Maybe you don’t think of me anymore,
but I’d like to think that there’s an invisible thread
connecting us, and if I only was able to tug on it,
you’d know you’re on my mind.

Together, sometimes

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I’ve been stuck,
trying to find words
that I want to share
about you.

I don’t want to dwell
on all of the things
that didn’t work between us.

There’s too much to explain
really.

But there were moments,
where we just clicked.
When time passed too fast
and we tried to cling
to each other for a minute longer.

I loved your playfulness.
Like when you would try to get my
attention by picking me up.

So many times, I’d be
cooking something in the kitchen,
and you’d manage
to turn me upside down —
my face beet red and
head dizzy from the inversion.

I remember that one afternoon,
both of us tired but chatty,
and you pretended
to be your cat.

I don’t recall laughing
like that in so long.
I thought our neighbors
were going to come check on me
because of my howling.

Tears streamed down my cheeks
as you nuzzled obsessively
and purred and batted like any cat
with an anxious-attachment style.

I miss that.
And I miss you. At least parts.

We might not have been soulmates,
but we were something
that, with all odds against us,
kept coming together.

My sunspot

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I could hear the trees creaking.

I could hear the trees creaking
as your breathing slowed,
and I fell asleep
to the peaceful mixture.

I dreamed of nymphs,
nimble and wiry,
dancing and singing
in the windy night.

When the sun peeked
through the blinds
the next morning,
she reminded me
of everything.

She made me wonder
if you were sunshine
in human form.

You are fiery and blinding,
yet warm against my skin.

Like when using a weighted blanket,
I am equal parts comforted and nervous.

It’s scary and confusing
to embark on this path
with so many unknowns or
unvoiced thoughts.

But it’s warm here,
with my sunspot.

Maybe the light that’s
bursting from my chest
sees the light
tucked away in you.

Body language

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If you were to cut me open,
bleed me until my lips turned blue,
you’d find only words
pouring from the gash.

My blood has grown thick
with adverbs and dependent clauses,
muddled by you
and I and what-if.

I wish these words
would tattoo my body,
an ever-changing sea
of my heart and soul.

It’s nerve-wracking to share
those things I keep
tucked inside.

My legs and arms shake
in anticipation,
not sure whether to run
or reach out.

If you found me,
words spilling onto the carpet
in a mess of red,
would you take the time
to read them?

Would you scoop them up,
gently, and return them
to my open arms,
grown tired from holding
back the tide?

As I fade in and out,
two words
bubble to the surface.

____ and ___

mark my final moment.

practicing life

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Our chemical hearts.
Yours. Mine.
Theirs.

Organs thumping
again and again,
unabashed.

I wrote a story recently,
one about a man
who saved a woman by CPR.

He pressed
and pressed and pressed
and pressed.

She faded in
and out. Her pulse unsure
about this world and
tempted by the next.

He pressed
and pressed and pressed,
again.

She lived
and lived and lived
and lived.

I can feel my own heart now,
steady, unchanging.
2022 tested the limits of it,
as 2021 did before,
and all those formidable years before.

I lived in limbo,
fading in and out
as the world spun
all too quickly.

I lived and lived
and lived.

Looking back,
I’m not entirely sure how,
but boy am I glad I did.

If the act of writing was violent,
I wrote until I nearly bled out,
stumbling with my head
stuck in the clouds.

I hid in a trench so deep
no one could dig me out.

I laughed and cried,
neither emotion coordinating
with their usual expression.

I was we, for a short period.
A whirlwind.

I finished the longest
and shortest period of my life.

I broke.
Then was sutured.

I drove and drove
and drove,
finding serenity within the trees
and nearly passing out
in the Oklahoma sun.

I made use of my brain to hand
connections,
writing for more than myself.

I’m not sure what to expect
for next year.

My guards are up,
like the gutter bumpers
in bowling.

I want for so much,
but most of all,
I wish for a kinder sea
for me and you.

and you

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I always loved dreaming,
usually partaking in fantastical,
outrageous situations.

I’ve lived through multiple apocalypses,
assassinations, attacks from tigers and bears, et cetera.
I’ve seen people morph into insects
and household items into reptiles.
I’ve experienced physical pain.

And yet.
These dreams do not
compare to the others —
the ones that feel too realistic
and too present and too possible.

My brain and heart ache
in a way my fantastical dreams
never make me feel.

This is all to say,
I had a dream about you.

It was short and sweet,
most of it lost to whatever place
dreams go.

I met your family,
mom and dad greeting me
with hugs. Your mom and I
talked for a long time.
I really liked them.

And I think they liked me.

I’ve tried to dissect the dream,
and there is one obvious
truth there, laying like
a corpse in a shallow grave.

Maybe it’s simply
a reminder to cradle hope.
Maybe it means
nothing at all.

I could take a guess,
but will I ever really know?

One year

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I wrote a poem on this day
last year — grateful
for someone and something
that sparked a light for me.

I chased that light,
feet and heart pounding
as I stumbled along.

When I finally found her,
she snuggled into my chest,
cradled by curved bone
and soft organs.

On this day last year,
I did not know of
all that could (and would)
happen.

I graduated college holding a pink rose;
a black sling was my greatest accessory;
my heart saw potential in vulnerability; and
I moved to a new home with friendly shadows.

I’m eager to see what happens next,
knowing that the impossible
has already occurred.

Us, I miss

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I keep having lapses of memory
when I go to turn off my alarm
and realize it’s no longer across the room.

Sometimes, I can’t help but sit on my desk,
thinking about our last home
and the echoing laughter
and heated floors
and cat hair.

I miss our constant humming
and our visitors
and the silence.

I don’t want to call it
a fever dream,
not yet anyways,
but sometimes it feels unreal.

I miss us
cooking dinner together.
I miss us
when going to sleep at night.
I miss us
making tea in the morning.

Everything begins and ends,
but we are nowhere near
those extremes,
just existing in this fugue state
and waiting for the moments
we get together again.