The 64 pack of crayons was not enough for my art projects; each one was broken

when my mother pressed down too hard on paper. The noise was similar to the

snapping of uncooked spaghetti, before she dropped it into boiling water to soften.

You were scared to move at the top of the lighthouse, weren’t you? But you did it anyway. My knees were shaking too. And I would ride the flying elephants in circles for hours on end just to see that smile on your face. I would sweat until the world began to spin if it meant I could hold your hand through every adventure. Somewhere between the gardens, the bridges, the sculptures, the ocean; there we were. And each time you laughed and looked back at me, I swear it was like I could hear for the first time. Every restaurant booth we have touched, every hammock we have shared, each splotch of color on the pier, a stamp. Ink still fresh and dripping down my heart sleeve.

They say a person is most honest in their sleep. It’s enough.

She says, “I can’t be.” She says, “Why?” She says, “How, how, how?”

In the car, her silhouette- darker and brighter as the street light

shines on the rings around her pupils, growing. Her shadow is enough.

The screen door to a home I never knew. We never needed a welcome

mat, never needed to slide the latch. The breeze itself was enough.

Mountain, after mountain, after mountain.

I am always climbing and what have I got to show for it? Pretty pictures?

Dirty soles? You are enough, you beautiful thing. I want to lay you down.

I want you to hear me. I want to forget about punctuation and capitalization and

write you down the way you deserve to be written and listen to Bon Iver sing about

One; You twitch in your sleep, but twitching is an ugly motion, so I like to imagine the movement as your blood dancing.

Two; Everyone knows I hate it when someone gets the words wrong. But when the lyrics spin ‘round your tongue til their dizzy, it’s the only way I know you, too, have flaws.

Three; I tried to write novels like you wanted, but it was always the same scene: two people – in a car, under an orange streetlight.

If I dug a shovel into the earth, unburied my past, would you lick my wounds?

The way the blanket moves when she sleeps, barely rising, barely falling, is just enough for you to know she is breathing and you whisper “God,” like you are certain you must have picked the last four leaf clover in your past life. “God.” And you don’t believe in the word, but you believe in this beautiful body lying next to you. You crave her something serious, the way the taste buds on the back roads of your tongue need sweet after salty and salty after sweet.

She sweats above you, below you and you think it is the most incredible thing you’ve ever felt. You know it isn’t sweat, but rather the condensation of a body that’s been raining on the inside for so long. You touch. It’s humid and she’s shedding her worn skin, but that’s ok because sometimes, you do too. And all of this sweat and skin and condensation, won’t something stunning come of it? Won’t you eat the bread and drink the wine?

When her tongue moves behind her teeth, you become the tallest tree in a dark field of a lightning storm. Paralyzed, baptized, whatever it is you feel it in your knees. In your gut, on your skin, you hear the buzzing in your ears and you don’t have to ignore it anymore. Go ahead, you are allowed.

People say I don’t smile. Say I only smile when I’m nervous. Say I only smile when I’m panicking, and I rarely panic. But we sat in the living room laughing until my face hurt and I remembered how easily other lovers can remind you to appreciate your own. They were so happy and so, light. You leaned in and whispered to me, “They both have perfect teeth.” They saw you out of the corners of their eyes as they sang along to the songs playing through the speakers, but I hoped they knew we said only good things. Happy things.

We needed that. We need more people like that. The world does, I think. More mountains, more adventures, more laughing and more laying on the floors of strangers. More screened in porches falling apart and more history; the kind about humans and their feelings, not countries and their wars. More crumbs in the car, more sneakers with worn laces. We’ve got a lot more ground to cover.

One evening, a cautionary tale- a field of poppies. Don’t fall asleep, you might miss it or worse; you might dream about her.

So you dreamt about her lips, so what? You’re like a bird in the middle of the flock, a giant arrow in the sky pointing to a home that doesn’t exist. (you can afford to make a new one) Remember: a risk is a reward.

Find yourself on a cloud, thinking “her skin is not so porcelain after all.” Let your body take a new shape that fits snug with another. Let her breathe because she’s been waiting to- she’s been waiting too.

I bring you flowers with my bare hands; they are bleeding. First my hands, then the flowers.

And it rains so hard that it’s fucking beautiful The river turns pink; plentiful. The city is underwater.

When I drive over bridges, I imagine how I would escape the vehicle if it were submerged.

Before we ever kissed, you gave me a journal for Christmas.

And how badly I wish we could have known each other before we actually did How badly I wish I could watch you as you slide through the isles of the book store dragging your finger along the spines before you had ever even touched mine in search of a hardback to wrap in the prettiest paper.

Wish you could see the way I looked at you each time you had your back turned pupils so wide my eyes watered. Laws of attraction but, but Laws of detachment I wasn’t allowed to feel my own feelings, no, I couldn’t touch you.

So when I finally did, believe that: My insides turned to ivy, intertwining like they had never quite known one another before, that the churches who cursed us came burning down in a violent blaze of glory, that I felt a sense of liberty and justice the pledge of allegiance could never provide me.

Finds his body

and paints it

I’m wearing yesterday’s makeup and you, yesterday’s smile. You look so small on our big bed and I know you must be dreaming when the wrinkle above your eyebrow folds over like a pair of aces who’s just seen the royal flush. The clock is ticking so loud I can’t hear myself think. I don’t care if you won’t feel it, I kiss you anyway. I always kiss you anyway because somewhere, the dust is settling. Somewhere, the trumpet plays too soon. Somewhere, someone is wishing they had kissed someone else once more. Have I told you that your blood pumping is the sweetest sound? A symphony? Some days I fear there will never be a musical note to describe it, but that’s okay beautiful, it will be our little secret.

In DC, the escalators go both ways on both sides. The tunnel is dark and I wait for the ceiling to collapse inward.

I don’t walk fast enough for the people dressed in business suits. They push me with their briefcases. They push me without ever making contact.

What is more American than fireworks? Pretty like girls. Loud like guns.

What is more ironic than fog blocking the view? Oohs and ahs suppressed by “what the fuck?” and “I can’t see!”

What is more symbolic than a white house as the most important home in a country which fails to acknowledge any other color?