This is a poem 
for you.
 
The kind of poem
that drips,
golden and glowing
from your lips
onto hard concrete at 2AM.
 
I’m reading you aloud
in the dark company
of night.
and you’re not even here to listen.
 
This is a love poem
to all the gods
we thought we knew.
 
To thick fog
at dawn.
 
To distance between fingers
and the sticky glue
we call hope.
 
I’m finally talking about
all the things
I forgot to mention
early in the morning, lonely
 
on a train platform somewhere.
 
Surely, the exact place
I have never been.
 
This is a love poem
to you.
 
It’s about caves,
and winter sunlight.  
 
About all the places you refuse to cry 
and the time
the ocean did it for you.
 
This is a manifesto
to the nook
below your chin.
 
And the place your

He's standing there again.
Right in front. 

Stomach fit full of bees 
and a shirt that smells strongly 
of 2am books 
and burnt morning coffee. 

Your minutes turn to hours,
hours to days,
days to years. 

Where have you gone
with your green velvet pants
and a hole in the right side of your head?

Please tell me what it's like
to hold the whole world
in your ears. 

No, don't tell me. 

Show me.

Show me what it's like to slip
your silent honey fingers
into someone else's overwhelming
life. 

 

There were thorns involved
and so with careful fingers 
the firm, deep purple berries
were pulled off stalks,
held in palms,
and eaten.

It reminded her of birds 
when they delicately land
on thorn bushes.
Tiny toes splayed,
balancing the sharp mountains
in between skin.

Blackberry picking was a slow, methodical process, one that could last hours
if let alone.  

And she was alone;
reaching with night-stained fingers, 
for another jewel 
draping towards the ground,
adding it to the collection of savored
things from summer afternoons.

Cool ponds,
tiny caterpillars,
dirty calloused feet. 

They were simple and achievable 
and are the things she remembers 
20 years from now. 

Blackberry picking 
in early August. 



 

Every time I sit down to write
I remember 
your smile. 

The dark.

The light in the corner.

1. You have entranced me,
consumed me.
The only thing I know how to do anymore
is remember. 

2. I'll see you again 
and it scares me to think I could've changed
in your eyes.

3. I have fallen in love with the way you remember me. 

4. I'm not sure when we became beautiful.

Were we born that way?
Beautiful before creation? 

Beautiful the second we met?

5. I'm not sure it works that way
but I kinda wish it did. 

6. I want so badly
to be a part of the world
that falls from the sky. 

7. Every time I sit down to write
I remember your smile.

The way we fell together.

The way we learned to fly. 

I met you last week. 

We were quiet
and lonely
and only had the courage to smile. 

Skipping rocks
and occasionally wading into the ocean.

I want to remember it forever.
The way

I met you,
the way you had looked at me,
the way the ocean curved
into the horizon
and disappeared.

I want to remember forever how I met you
and when I first saw you smile
and how you sang.

I want to remember not knowing you 
and then suddenly
changing. 
 

He looked at you
with those eyes again.

The ones that beg you to hold him.

And you would
if you weren't afraid of his lightning. 

He reminds you of the jellyfish
you found last summer. 

It was small 
and beautiful 
and was everything 
that a lonely ocean girl longs for. 

You love him. 
You did when you met him, when he smiled at you.