Tag: you

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.

guitar static

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I had a dream —
or maybe it was a memory —
that you commented
on one of my poems.

I can’t seem to find it now
or recall which poem it was,
but it made me think
of my horoscope from yesterday,
the one that read,

“your type of paranoia means
that you think someone hates you
if they don’t respond right away.”

Now, I don’t expect you to respond,
but clear thoughts like that
don’t exist in anxiety-riddled bodies.

I’ve learned a few things that
I’ve wanted to share with you —
for no reasons other than
I learned them or
felt insanely ashamed of
not knowing them before —

like realizing Jack White wrote
Steady, as she goes
with Brendan Benson.

Anyways,
I think it was a dream,
a dream where the world spun
and I thought of The Weepies.

I accomplished something great today.
I shared it, of course, hoping you’d care.

I think you did.

But now I’m here,
thinking about the rattling words
in my brain and drinking
a warm beverage
from a shipwrecked mug.

Moths

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My light’s been flickering
in and out

in and out.

It’s hard to know if the flame
is fed or killed by the winds
blowing through my lungs.

I’m coming back to this light, my light,
after months of shedding it,
unassumingly, for others,
for you.

I’m trying to hold tight
as the shadows tangle
around the flame,
trying snuff out
each burning ember.

I want to give light,
but I need to keep some
for the fairies sleeping in tree galls
and under mushrooms;
for the fireflies at midnight; and
for my burning chest
and tired limbs.

I’m circling my light
as if a brown moth
dancing in worship
of the unknown
and unseen.

Some light may slip through
to shine for you, for them,
but she’s my lighthouse,
guiding me across
this glistening sea.

The moon, again

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I gather moments as if
droplets of blood,
each collecting and pausing
in my heart until
my chest feels so full
it might burst.

I smile when this happens,
knowing the immense joy
I feel will soon dissipate,
but already I’ve relived
a moment of bliss.

These memories,
pooling under the surface,
are as easily sketched
across a blank page
as they are written
across my face.

I can’t help but remember
those times where giddy
ruled over any other emotion —
where pain seemed impossible
and care was our only inevitability.

My friend, once upon a time,
taped “pain is inevitable;
empathy is required”
on her computer.

I think about it, day
after day.

Life is pain,
and yes, many other things,
but I come back
to the pain most often.

Anyways,
how could one love
without knowing its opposite?

The moments currently
swelling up
relate to you, of course,
and are as clear as the moon
on a cloudless night.

Yet, there’s something
more beautiful about the moon
when half-hidden amongst clouds
that makes me miss
the mystery
of it all.

Reflections

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I watch her stare through the glass,
only, it’s not her physical presence
that draws my attention,
it’s her reflection, so peaceful
in comparison to her anxious frame.

I wonder what your reflection
would say about you. Is it nervous,
jubilant, or perhaps a little melancholy?

My reflection always seems sad —
dark circles amplified
under fluorescent lights,
the lines of my face drawn without care.

If we only saw reflections,
would that make it easier
to have compassion for strangers?

I would see your truth,
and theirs and theirs and theirs.

What a beautiful place
the world would be,
still fractured,
but oh so much clearer.

The moon again

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The moon is loud tonight,
clashing cymbals
and drum rolls.

You once said,
in not so many words,
“think of me when you look at the moon
because I will also be looking (but at a different moon, obviously).”

Even in what could be
a serious moment,
you have me laughing.

It’s crazy what happens when
you let people in
and they let you in.

There’s so much
to give and to take,
to hold and to allow
to be held.

I don’t know
if you’re experiencing
the same moon,
but damn is
she keeping me up.

Boots, boards, and broken elbows

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Who would have thought,
a week before graduation,
I would be sitting here
typing with only one hand
as the other arm is splinted from
bicep to knuckle.

I hope you don’t
blame yourself.
I find the whole situation
highly amusing.

Who would have thought,
I’d be sitting here,
feeling this way
one week before graduation.

I hope reading these
words isn’t scary,
being the raw honesty
I carry inside.

I often feel splintered,
un-whole, broken.
I guess I am one
of those things now.

You make me think
those thoughts less.

Last night,
you asked, “why, me?”

A complicated question
that words barely scratch
the surface of.

There’s comfort
between us, like
fresh laundry
or a hot cup of tea.

There’s easy laughter,
smiles and gazes
that spark *something.*

And then
there’s you,
a bright light in my life.

Perhaps you are the light
I’ve been searching for …

Another poem.

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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.