Palm.

I open my fingers to let you breathe,
And you’re gentle.
Inhaling against my palm--
You’re keeping warm,
And teaching me how.
I wonder at you
Because even though you’re not a flower,
That’s still how you feel.
As beautiful,
And as real.

i looked up.

she always pulls off what you
never think she won't do,
slides right into the cracks of
invisible walls and shoes you never had
and does exactly what they all keep
saying you're supposed to--

she comes back.

but while her shoulders are turned,
you hear some say
they prefer things to happen
when she's in absence.

and while her back is turned,
you hear your own
thoughts screaming they
can't do anything when
she's so far away.

so sometimes, i try to plead with them.
but they never understand
that i'm exhausted and my head
won't process what my heart's forgot.
and i know the only reason
i make an effort of this,
is more for you and less for me.
but i'm afraid to admit that.

and it feels as though i've
only mastered half of what she can--
all of "breaks" and never "through".
and i try to get closer to earn
a whole of what it is to recover,
and it takes very little to feel
the strength of her against my skin,
against our skins, continuity.

but she shows in all the places.
and she's needed in all the places.
and she holds in all the places,
that they always understand need and light.
and she tries to get me listening,
tries to get me reaching,
tries to get me being what
all of this might mean.
but the reflection's getting darker,
and the space beside is getting brighter
and i'm pulled along other cobblestones.
away. yearning.

and i know the only reason
i can see her in the face anymore,
is because she's got sky in her eyes,
and that's the single place
that ever really knows me back.

and i've realized that she,
is the one thing i want to be,
yet fear is the one
that will never be close enough
to consume me entirely.

What They Never Tell You.

Dear Sir,
If it’d be alright,
I’d like to give it all back.
I promise I will return it to the shelf gently,
Just like you had it—
Looking idyllic and perfect and magic,
And pristine in all the ways everyone
Always imagines these things--
In exchange for my place back
In the center of the aisle,
With my usual time at 4:43 in the afternoon
Where I’d come by and dream,
And wish that I could find a way to make It mine.
Because you see sir,
That pretty thing that you sell on that shelf
Is all sharp and glass on its insides.
It attaches to the skin far too easily
While you’re distracted by its ability
To make everything seem right,
Then it becomes a part of your everything.
Until one night it gets a little too dark,
And It gets a little too restless,
It shatters from its core and pains your insides,
Exactly as the warnings they never tell you about.
And nobody can stay like that,
Shattered all the time,
Messy all the time.
Where your only hopes
Are attempts at scars,
And your fingers scrape, and hurt in the morning,
So you can’t hold or touch anything for weeks.
And in the corner of the room, is what you’ve
Managed to rip free, Along with the bits
Of your skin its taken with it.
And there are holes along the
Insides of your heart, and tired soul.
And you think you hear it crying,
But it’s too muffled for you to tell.
And sir, I just don’t know that it’s worth it,
To lose your head over your heart,
To become what you never were.
No, Sir,
I’d rather watch from afar,
With some potential made
Of wondering in my hands
And some hope in my eyes,
Than know what it is to actually own it,
And to feel with every step
That parts of me are missing.

So sir, if you could, plan out a reason
Why it shouldn’t be sold in the future.
So when these young ones bring it to the counter,
You can make them put it back in
The light where it’s safe,
And when the old ones bring it to the counter,
You can make them put it back
In the case of ddealism and dreaming brand,
And maybe, just, be a protector.
Because I’m afraid if you won’t, sir,
Nobody else will.
And I don’t know how much more
Any of us can take before
We just break apart for good.

Empty.

It’s standing on the doorstep,
And has been each Wednesday
Since last spring.

It keeps on knocking,
But only at one time.
Only at 3am.
Because that’s the time
When these things know
You’re the weakest.
And that’s the time when
These things know that
You want to let them come
On the inside,
And you’re getting too tired
To pretend that all you want isn’t
To have them there anymore.
But you turn over on your stomach,
With your back facing out
Because you know if you let it in—
It’ll only want to get back out again.
Because it always wants
What it doesn’t have,
Far more than what it has
And is never in danger of losing.

And when it goes—
It won’t knock,
And re-latch the door correctly
To make sure you’re safe next
Time someone else comes to stay,
Or it’ll sneak out in the darkest of the day,
While your face is turned,
So you have to remember
By the couch, and the curves
That it left by the space that it filled,
Next to you when you came home from work
And you won’t have to know
Your own space,
The one beside,
And how it is that really,
There’s something empty inside of you.
Always.

Today, it’s 3:13 in the morning
And it’s knocking louder than it ever has.
But after knock one-hundred-and-seven,
You roll over with your head under the comforter
And the pillows pulled up by your knees
While the cat stretches by the
Side of your bed.
And you try to go back to your gray dreams
Because this time—
You’re not letting it back.
You’re not giving it a chance.
You’re not letting it close.
You’re not remembering how it can be—
Not since the sweet taste of how it was
Is still caught on the insides of your teeth,
And is causing your stomach to ache.