something like memoirs

with me"

but who is negligent enough

to leave knives,

broken glass,

shattered bottles

on the floor for concerned steps to meet

in dim evening rooms

and street lit corners?

"You seem happier"

because my recovery has sped up

after leaving additional luggage

behind

at borders of apathy

and hurt.

Tip-toeing, early mornings. Careful, always on the lookout.

It goes without saying that I’m a little broken, but held together by the gold spewed by those who take the time needed.

Heartfelt, gentle words. Patient, long silences.

It goes without saying that I’m a little broken, yet on the pathway  of recovery in the caring grasp  of someone who knows.

     You are going to regret it. You are going to love it. You are going to love regretting it. You are going to regret loving it. 

     Most of all love it, for the regrets that were there before you have left deep tracks that outdo your own feet, allowing themselves to collapse around you if you dare to step too close; love it, love it all, every dreadful minute and every passing hour where you question your belief, for it is the only way through. 

     Love it. 

     Never regret it. 

     Count the days where your hours cross one another, rain on grass, no longer moon and sun. Write them inside your palm, kiss it close and love those scribbled lines, cradle them against your heart and count, keep counting; it is the only way you’re gonna get through.

     And when those days pass, count again. Wave hello as you pass one another into the night which breaks into morning, greet one another with quick kisses and clumsy touches, allow hellos to be good-nights and good-nights to become hellos. This is reality and it has you by the back the neck, face up to the fact that you are human, you are no cure, you are only a lover whose heart willingly sets itself on fire to keep somebody else warm. You are a totem, ready to guide those who are lost, all despite never having returned home yourself; leave a candle out in the open, make sure to bring yourself back, too, for what is a guide without a home on their own but someone whose luggage has fallen open, too? 

     Carry that luggage.

     Sweep the remains into your hands, pick it up, carry it along as you chase your moon across the endless globe. Count the days, hold on tight, for this is how you love a soul whose luggage has turned to restless nights, shaky hands and mismatched laughter. 

      You are going to regret it. You are going to love it. You are going to love regretting it. You are going to regret loving it; but it’s all worth a try.

The day you are to kiss me hold your breath, for within there is a void so deep and so cold that my heart will collapse on itself at the faintest chance of air of love of you.

The day you dare to love me, remind me to apologize for all the damage I will do.

You are so important to me, the way you laugh in early morning hours still untainted by the sweet scent of caffeine that spreads as we talk for hours that suddenly come to feel like minutes.

You are so important to me, the way we fit, sky and clouds, sun and flower, wind and sea; good in our great, great in our bad, a match made in chance.

You.

in case you ever doubted this beating heart singing for you; listen, closely, it hums for you.

the thumps within are hymns spelling out your name on repeat; again, again, agai; because i can’t sleep with you; again, again, again --- chanting your name in a holy prayer.

it beats for you, it beats for you.

a remedy, i linger in your presence like drops on a window hope racing logic down to the rotting sill; morning breaks, neither wins for both is wiped clean the second you stroll out.

in case you ever wondered; i am here, in case you come around.

We would lock our fingers and tell the world to look away with nothing but our stolen glances in a time we didn’t grasp; when did our hope fall from its highest belief?

We would lock our fingers and swear holy matrimony in ancient hallways stained with the past  memories of the silent souls who loved so hard that they dared no to understand it; how did we let each other go?

We would lock our fingers; why did we stop?

a joy to live,          i live to thrive in the warmth you have to offer  in this shallow, tepid january bed.

and you are going to touch him so lovingly with these diffident fingers of yours; gently they will glide across that blemished skin that has shielded him for far too long.

and you are going to ache to kiss him, for in the end he is not yours to save, to salvage, to protect, nor to love;

but you are still going to touch him, hold him, adore him with these trusty hands that won’t reject.