Your teeth have left their
mark the insides of
my thighs reveal too much about
last night suggested that six months
worth of misplaced certainty does not
change the way your fingers
slide down the curve of my
back to where they belong.

My legs are not
alone in their shaking, my fingers have located
yours are wound around mine like a
snake bites are poisonous and it’s important to
remember if your mouth gets any closer to
mine will put it in
its place is about as permanent as
you will never look as good as you did with me.

was i wrong?
this is the coldest july’s ever been.
we needed more time.
a feeling that is meaningless
shouldn’t feel better than one that holds depth.
i can’t explain.
i can’t explain
and i will never forgive you.
here is my worst fear
laid plainly on my bed.
our bed.
silence, darkness, defeat
something sacred, torn from its place.
you wont save me.
i wasn’t wrong.
and i’ll never forgive you.

I have spelled my name in love
and it sounds just like you.
I have tasted it from your lips
heard it from your mouth
smelled it on your skin.
It’s on your fingers, laced in mine
visible through smoke and
tears and blinding sun.
It tastes like the golden summer
fleeting, held tightly against the shore
on the North End.
It doesn’t have to end.
If you were to pin me down
tightly against that shore
drowning in your gaze
I would stay, clinging to your salty skin
forever in the grasp
of that which is greater than I.
We are tied together by our tongues
tied in triumph.
Turn and look where we came from,
scan for whats left to enjoy;
the unseen doorways of tomorrow
held wide for us.
I have been translated into love
spoken into flame
ignited just to give you more.
I have met with the demons
and met with the angels
and explained that we belong
to each other
girl and boy, alike.
captured and bound and thrown.
It will never end.
Even the roaring silence
cannot touch this heartbeat.
I am convinced that it knows all
and I know only it.

This is familiar.

My turn signal takes me left
onto De Ja Vous -
I think I’ve been here before.

Crack the windows.

Twelve months ago
I would have filled and emptied
my lungs a thousand times by now,
on the way to your house.
I’ve found some habits die
quicker than others.

Shiver.

Twelve months ago
every song would have been busy
trying to convince me that I was
going the right way.
It’s hard to think when
your bones are freezing.
No wonder I always found
your arms so warm.

Maybe
everything that happened
happened simply because
I was cold.

October caught this skin off guard
kinda like the moon did to the night
when it decided to paint
everything a lighter shade of dark.

To me
it’s always been
write or wrong
and you were easier
to love when I was
scratching you into
every surface.
How silly
to think that writing
about you meant
I had to love you -
that putting you down
meant I had to be
put down too.

I went looking for you
and I found the birthplace of chaos.
And there, at the edge of my world,
in the space between where I’d been
and where I’m headed, upon shaky legs,
I stumbled
heart first into destiny.
I knew I had no choice but to absorb
you into this thick skin,
allow you to flow freely
through this bloodstream
of consciousness – altered -
and let you fuel
this
sputtering
heartbeat.
And now I thrive,
shamelessly, on this love -
furious, riotous, victorious -
and there are handfuls more
where it came from.
This love – overcoming,
infallible, audacious, intrepid -
has led me, singing,
into the Valley of Beracah.
I sit, mesmerized and marveling
at how warm this sunrise is
and preparing for an
unimaginable sunset.

If I was good at writing what I thought,
I’d come up with some way to wonder
how it’s possible that this boy is in love with me
when I’m such a wreck all the time.
Then I’d admit that, earlier when he was here,
I silently thanked God for every single freckle on his body,
especially the three on his lips which are my favorites.
I’d say that I sometimes convince myself that, if I kiss him
enough, those three freckles will somehow rub off
onto my own lips and then he’ll understand why
I always point them out to him.

I’d write about the conversation we had earlier
about fate and how I never know if I believe in it or not.
I’d say that I never know if I can believe in God
and in fate at the same time and then I’d write
that I’d decided I could because, if I’m wrong,
God would understand.

All this talk of God would make me think
of things that are bigger than me, like gravity,
and I’d say that I wish I knew how to defy it,
just so I could say that I did.
And that would make me think of those jet planes
that go fast enough to leave me speechless
and how much I’d love to fly in one.
Except, I’d get scared and I’m sure I’d be sick
so maybe it’s better that I just stay on the ground.
And that brings me back to gravity
and the fact that gravity cannot be defied
by remaining on the ground.

I’d have to write about how ridiculous
some of these thoughts have been and
how everyone always thinks their minds
move faster than other people’s when,
really, we’re all just thinking at the same speed.
Thinking about the way people think makes me think
that it’s impossible to think for yourself.
With all those thoughts there’s no way that there’s
anything original left to think.
But thinking about things that haven’t been
thought yet is like trying to create a color.
Impossible.

But forget impossible.
I’m heart-deep in an impossible situation.
In fact, when I get to heaven I will apologize
to God for ever thinking I was smart enough
to determine what was and was not possible.
I’d love to know why he didn’t make it
so that it could snow in warm weather,
and why he decided we should
sleep at night and play during the day
instead of the opposite way.
But if there’s one thing I know it’s that I know
absolutely nothing and that it’s better that way.

If poetry were a person,
she would be a rebel.
She would put us all in our places
and I would be guilty of envy.
I would follow her around
like the big sister I never had;
dressing like she dressed,
doing what she did, and
shamelessly hoping that
I would wake up the next day
and be her instead.

What I would give to be bilingual;
to be fluent in both English and my soul
and be able to translate one into the other
so people might understand what I mean
when I say I need this for the moments
I want to be strong but can only manage weak.
I would love to be able to send the hardest heart
to it’s knees and leave it to it’s tears
and that feeling that only comes from
complete conviction; the one that feels
like finally finding the word that was
hiding on the tip of your tongue.
I’m the kind of girl who believes that
God wouldn’t have given me this talent
if I weren’t supposed to use it and I mean to.
But I’m in my own way, tripping over my own
fingers, stumbling over my own words.
I would love to change the world or,
at least, a life with these thoughts of mine
and maybe I can but, if that’s the case
I’ll need someone to show me where
I can find the courage to do so.