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well-read and well-poured is dangerously thin.
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The smell of beer wafts up and dances around my senses as i walk by the bars, and suddenly you appear, like a butterfly flying around a garden eden green. You grow on the walls of my days like vines of ivy. You held my hand as we waited and i felt joy at the warmth. You think i forget but i remember every moment i share with you. I tell you i pin point junctures in time that im going to write about but no, every moment with you is worth filling pages upon. I go through time’s interlaced fabrics and kiss the braids where our hands and lips were, interlocked. I selfishly use time at the pleasure of remembering you, whether it was two seconds ago or two months. Everything you do is electric.
Why not?
We couldn’t have looked at the moon at the same time,
Time zones just wouldn’t allow it. Absolute opposites, twelve in the evening for me, twelve in the afternoon for you.
But you could have FaceTimed me as I pointed my camera towards oblivion. You could have watched the sun rise, painting your world gold while I’d watch mine set as the blue hour came in. You could have watched a live feed, set an alarm on the same thing you use to text me. I know it’s a lot to ask but maybe work your ass off so you could buy a plane ticket and fly over even just for a night. I don’t know, send an email to NASA so they could troubleshoot it since you’re obviously in the wrong server. Maybe they’ve got a dedicated line for that problem because i'm sure it’s been fixed before. You could have told the moon to split in half (nicely) and I’d gladly offer a thank you gift for the trouble you caused it. Come on, push your piece of the floating rock a little closer to mine.
I would have.
Whatever, the moon on a back camera would have looked like a speck.
When then couple in the movie said their i love you’s you squeezed my hand gently. I love you too. I love you. I love you. I love you. I didn’t squeeze back as much as i would want to, in fear that you made a mistake, that the pressure on my bones was merely a slip of your consciousness. My fear will be the end of me. But oh how i adore you. How i wanted to squeeze your hand and your arms and your shoulders and to gently touch your jaw as i give you a kiss. Do you see the love through my eyes? Do you hear my whispered confessions in the silences that take up the air between us? Do you watch my regret as i say goodbye? I don’t think ive ever left you not wishing i had stayed more. I want to tell you that i love you but my fear holds my throat captive. Please, tell me you do, so that i can be free of these shackles. Once i taste the white sunshine of freedom ill write you poems composed of words never thought of before. I’ll stitch my love into every curve of the ink. I’ll make sure you know. I love you.
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My Stowaway
There is a kind of loneliness that only begins when someone sits down next to you. Only then do you truly sense how empty you were before.
It is like walking out of a movie theater, your eyes dazzled by the bright light.
And you wonder: was it actually that bright the whole time?
The trouble with loneliness is that you always carry it around with you—a stowaway you know nothing about.
Only when it sits down beside you do you suddenly see what has been with you all along.
And instead of feeling less alone, the realization gnaws at you, sending waves of that feeling washing over you ever more intensely, until your lungs fill with so much water that you can no longer breathe.
Now you are no longer alone, yet you could not possibly be lonelier.
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