We are all going forward.

I think I've always wanted to be a writer. In some ways. It wasn't as explicit and as all encompassing and fulfilling and terrifying as it is now. But it was always there.

And for as long as I've consciously wanted to be a writer, I've wanted to write for television.

We write what we can't have,

and what we don't want.

About what we need,

or can’t live without.

About what scares us

so, so much

that we can’t even allow ourselves to think about it happening in this life

     to our own bodies.

We write about the things that left a bad taste in our mouth.

About the things we left unsaid,

and those that never should have crossed our lips, 

and ventured out into the world

creating yet another

universe in which mistakes were made

     (and promises broken)

We write about our broken hearts

of loneliness

of love we only wish we could experience

We write with the fleeting notion that with our words

    these scars will leave our bodies

i love to write poetry

i do

but when it’s all i think of

speeding through my mind

making its presence known like a disease

ready to take over

that will win

because it’s enemy is weak. 

It’s times like these that i’m scared to write 

because i know what’s feeding it

this impossible darkness laying its roots in my brain

but it’s all i can do

and it’s now that it isn’t something i do because it’s fun

it’s something i do to survive

the only thing that breathes life into me, if only just for a moment

and that’s the tricky part

it gives me notice that i’m alive

and in those moments of awareness 

it becomes all the more clear that 

It's different this time.

I don't know how, but it is.

Probably because everything in my life is finally situated on the road to success.

So, there's more to lose.

So much more.

And it's terrifying.

It's also different because it wasn't accompanied by the typical signs of a looming storm.

The aggravation. The sleeping for days. The never quite having enough energy to do anything.

It was all an accident.

One day your paths crossed.

And then you noticed her. Nothing in particular. You can’t even recall what it was. But, it was something.

And it crept up your spine, and tingled down you arms, and danced across you neck like an unexpected breeze on a warm summer’s day.

And you couldn’t stop it, lord knows you tried.

You’ve stopped telling me I’m beautiful. Not because you don’t think it. Don’t believe it to your very core… But, because there are so many other ways to say it without words. Make it known in a way that you’ve grown to realize don’t have the potential to fog my brain and feel strange. Because even after all this time I still find the statement to be limited. Constricted. Defining me in a way I didn’t agree to because of some arbitrary belief of what it means to be. Beautiful.

In the silence they caress my skin. Holding a weight far greater than they would if they had a sound. 

They hold me down. Warm me up. Cocoon me into safety in the same way your careful swaddling soothes our baby girl.

You say it as you trace your fingers down my back, following the raised lines (placed there by circumstances that remain haunting), while you place gentle kisses on my head as our breathing slows. Lulling us both to sleep.

You say it in the way you watch me with our daughter. Eyes glistening and wide, full of life and love and all the many wondrous things that tell me “you’re nothing like your parents,” and “I’m so happy to build a life with you.”

then my pen leaves the page

because that's the end of it.

I loved them when I began

(that's why I tried so hard)

and when they finally returned that devotion

and I begin to invision our future

together

I stop.

because I'm not capable of seeing 

how things turn out

you ask me who I'm writing about

you'll name a name and then list all the different 

clues in my writing that 

paint in the details

on the canvasses you've woven

to tell me something

you believe

I don't know about myself.

I listen to every one closely

then politely tell you that you're wrong.

Finally,

after one too many lives thrust upon me

like the dresses my grandmother made me wear on easter

that even when I begged to let me choose for myself

even when I cried

would hang on my frame

not unlike the people I  write about in my poems

I tell you:

They're faceless

blank

unmoving

and then I fill them with my words

until their hearts begin to beat

with a start

until their eyes blink awake

and focus on me, softening

and a smile so wide is crossing their faces.

I fill them up with my words

It's always a good night

when I lose myself in the words of a stranger

and become convinced

that they're talking about me

That they've taken the time to make me beautiful.

and then sent that paper to be published

which brought it into hands and homes

like my own,

I like this part the best

because it makes me feel 

like all your dreams came true

when you to decided to love me

how one note. one line. one chorus.

Sometimes I think of Carl Sagan’s quote

"we’re all made of star stuff”

about how even the most dense individuals have adopted it

and repeated it because it makes them feel better

to have a go to “intellectual” quote

but, mostly, i think about how true it is

The stars have been here much longer than we have

and it is with their death,

their implosion

that matter fell down and the earth became whole

and millions of years later

after so many deaths gone unnoticed

unknown and unmourned

we came to be

and that’s so overwhelming and amazing

to think that one day

we were shining above

but there was no one watching

or maybe there was

and we were the stars they wished upon on sleepless nights

probably not,

but it’s nice to think about.

I think about it often because it tangles two of my favorite things

that alone are magnificent and together are magical

But i’ve never thought of it in any other way than being part of the amazing thing call science

and the transcendent power of the written word

Until I met you

Until yesterday morning...

I opened my eyes and saw you looking down at me

you seemed content

possibly reverent

and my stomach flipped

my heart stopped 

then fluttered 

then took off faster than the most expensive sports car

sending me rocketing back to space

where we were born

where this moment was made possible

I saw galaxies and life and hope and love

and finally my own reflection

wrapped up in blankets that contained our warmth

it happened when my eyes met yours 

and in that moment

I understood the other meaning of his words

I saw proof of our origin in your eyes

it makes me think of another famous quote

and all I have to say is

never wipe the stars from your eyes,