i only write when something has to get out—
i don't even think about it anymore.

except for
that one playlist.

shadow bodies slick with sweat,
steamy red rooms and
numb-gummed lips.
dreams? or was it,
you still awake
on the checkered kitchen floor.
cool as the day i met you.
silent as the day i left.

i don't even think about it anymore.
except for

neon staircases and
Tecate tall cans.
side-mouthed cigarettes
stained Cute As A Button.
street lamps? or was it,
the dawning light
as we drifted off to sleep.
beaming, like your belly laugh.
sharp, like its echo
in my peripheral.

i don't even think about it anymore.
except for when i do,
and then it's all i think about.

can we skip to the part where
the growing is over,
the pain has subsided,
each bone is stretched
to its greatest capacity.

but is it that easy
for feelings to calcify.

so i wait, or
sometimes wallow,
impatient in the grey.
too far from who i am,
too close to
who i might be.

in my dreams i ask,
do you even miss me?
when i wake i wonder
if there’s anyone left to miss.

i’m afraid i lost the pinch pot you gave me—

not broken,
not stolen,
gone.

i long for
its crooked grooves
its hallowed depth
its smooshed shape
from hands.
the knock
on a dinner table,
sharing accoutrements
with people i love.

“it’ll turn up” he says.
but distraught isn’t a good enough word
for what it’s like to know
that might not be true.

still
i wonder
if we can pack up the pieces
of our lives
and find each other again.
in the hallowed depths
in the crooked grooves
in the space between—
right where we left it.

lessons of the river:

how to remain
and still
make progress. 

a trap isn't a place if it follows you. 

will it be easier when you're gone, 
i think.

i shouldn't.
i shouldn't.  

sometimes it seems
the only place we’ll agree
is six feet under.  

sometimes you might think,
"i could do that."

but then why don't you. 

delve deep into the pit
of your lover's stomach.
some things are learnt.
others,
found.

when you are standing
in the darkness
and you are scared.

remember.

the shadows are women
before you.

I'm reminded by you in the moments where space speaks for itself. In the times when the wind blows that wisp of hair into my mouth, and my clumsy smile catches it over chapped lips. When I feel what you would say (but I'm not sure) in between teeth when I'm doing something wrong. Or your light hearted laugh when I accidentally did something right (and I know).