where the ripples run

Painting layers of sepia over 

all my yesterdays. Hoping that 

when I gain the courage to look back,

I will see more warmth than 

acrylic. I am slipping

through time zones. I am flickering

through the bent glass of

neon letters. A motion so fluid and sharp

that I can’t help but see my truth. Always waiting for 

an experience

with cool tones and

heavy shadows. Something I can rearrange

in my memory. A thought I can

set in a windowsill 

It was dark, but not quite dark enough – I could still see my reflection in your garden pond (a distorted image, I remind myself, I have to), 

and the trees and the houses were black, silhouetted against the purple-grey sky. 

I wasn’t crying, but my cheeks weren’t dry, And I was thinking about all sorts of things: How quickly time disappears, and this overwhelming fear 

that I’ll look up, and three decades will have escaped me, and I don’t know how to use this shot at life I have, not really. 

There’s an ache in my stomach -   I can’t tell if it’s anticipation or fear, And I’m not sure if I want to know. 

I’m considering the versions of myself that live in other people’s minds, 

And thinking that maybe I can’t be the friend that you are, And will you still love me, If I can’t live up to the version of me you love? 

one day they'll find my bones.

your lipstick stains

decorating the space

between my joints.

turns out,

pain is just a symptom

of being alive.

how are you still so thirsty

after draining me dry..

the same easy intimacy as children,

with a different vibe.

your love makes me sick to my stomach.

waiting at the bar,

each time the door opens

i lose my cool.

i can't deny your charm,

late as always.

my heart starts weeping,

as your hand finds it's place on my thigh

under the table & noses

in a room full

of almost strangers.

i wonder

how much your friends know

on my own,

hundreds of years fall right over me,

i suffocate under a thousand stories,

of strangers,

and yours,

i wonder if you will come,