Poem Every Day in July 1: Leaving My Therapist’s Office


 

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The moon is always
an entire orb, although
you trusted descriptions like “sliver”
and “the sky’s bright scythe”
to give you the whole picture

until Mrs. Griffin’s third-grade depictions
of the well-fed face’s phases
created a radical shift
in your notions of the heavens.

From then on, your eyes
sought the circle complete,
and you learned to see
the gossamer of geometry
that sits like a feather
on a dark lake,

proving that the existence of craters
and curves
cannot be smothered
by any lack of light.

You changed your paradigm,
but to the world
it was an old truth:
the heavy, hovering thing
has been floating there all along,
tucked, at times, into the back pocket
of the night sky,

but never gone.

Even when the moon, for all its ashy glory,
is eschewed from view,
its magnificence is present
and astounding.

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Almost: A Poem (or, rather, Lyrics for which I May Never Write Music)


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Crooked-tooth beauty, your wide smile curved
I saw you were everything I almost deserved
Head on your collarbone, I didn’t feel so alone
Affectionate words, unreserved

Your eyes, crinkled pastries all happy like that
Your toes, autumn-awkward on the welcome mat
You shone perfect pink, let your long lashes blink
Then lifted me up, swift, strong acrobat

Crooked-tooth beauty, you spun me around
Like a hot-air balloon peeled up from the ground
My giggles went pealing; swear I touched the ceiling
And back in your arms, warm and safe, I was found

What bright stroke of luck had granted me you?
What guardian angel did I have? Or who
Would read my bent mind and then be so kind
As to hand me the best thing the heavens can do?

Tumultuous beauty, I held you to me
Light met your green eyes like sunsets on the sea
Sweet fragile foam, you became my home
Now my boat is lost and I am so alone.

The Promise String: A Short Story


tumblr_njyzapXYyD1u92dlto1_500We’re suspended, the two of us here.

“Why do we need this?” he asks.

“So you don’t forget.”

“So I don’t forget, or so that I remember forever?” he chuckles at his own distinction. I don’t find it amusing in the slightest. The mug of hot liquid on the table is rapidly throwing steam from its possession.

“Do you want to untie it?”

“No. I never want to forget.”

“Now you’re lying.” He’s playing with the ends of the tie so that I know he’s lying. I drop his hand and it falls on the table between us.

“That hurt.” He says it but he doesn’t flinch, almost as if he saw the pain coming. I stand up from my wooden chair, opposite from his, and I’m relieved when the steely cold of the wood loses contacts with my body. He almost follows me, I can sense it, but part of him likes that steely cold.

“I swear I don’t want to forget,” he says. “I promise.” It’s all irrelevant. My back is to him.

“You can’t remember forever,” I tell him, my hands on the drapes. “You just can’t.” I start to tug on them.

“We can remember for as long as we want,” he suggests. “Even if we forget a few times. Forever is a long time to never forget something.”

“You would know about that.” I close the drapes. There’s still steam coming from the hot mug, now cooling, and even from across the room it warms my back.

“It will be a long time before I can forget this,” he hums. “It’s getting cold.”

“You like it cold.”

“I only said that so you would borrow my jacket.”

A part of the curtain, I realize now, was left partly open. It seems I won’t be forgetting for a long time, either. But I don’t know if this will be something worth remembering forever. The temperature in the room is dropping. The chair was cold, anyway. I pack my things and leave.

Gray: A Short Story


IMG_20141212_042618The sky is like nothing else. It is gray; it is dark; it sinks low with an impending storm.

The same could be said about the hollow eyes of the boy who sits next to me on the couch. He says very little. Around a warm and freshly empty mug he wraps his chilly, colorless fingers: fingers I have known well. I have known them on my shoulder, on my cheek, embracing my back. They are poised, and posed: so very, very still.

I can hardly see him breathe, and hardly believe him to be alive. Only for those split seconds when his eyelids allow themselves to be heavy, does he regain his color. His eyes were a different flavor of gray, once.

It seems all of him is gray now, from his frosty lips and dry skin, to the pale, distressed hair he attempts to keep hidden. The bags under his eyes hold the only color on his person.

As his gray body concentrates wearily on the world outside, his mind plays with the thin slice of paper that sits in front of him, crinkling it and throwing it away. Words are asleep on that paper, words scrawled with skinny lines in a faint manuscript. They are words that will not wake again for a very long time; the eyes that were meant to read them have closed.

I move closer to him, inches at a time. Although my focus remains outside the window, my cornerstone is next to me, on the couch. He offers no response when my arm, cautious, folds around him, but he lets his head lean into mine when it lands gently on his shoulder. He is so very still, contemplative and drowning in an ocean I cannot know. My empty hand finds his fingers, pulling them away from the cup, which has lent them no warmth. With every candle in my soul, I try to burn through to him.

“I loved you, you know.”

He cries now the way he has always cried: slowly at first, and then like a storm. He is an ashen raincloud, dropping his elixir to tap on my windows, shaking me, bleaching the whole world gray.

Explore: A Poem


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My body contains a nebula.

My soul is exploding;

it is a celestial combustion.

The stars in my heart are shooting outward

at a million miles per hour,

electrifying my brain

my fingertips,

my toes.

My voice throws galactic lightning;

my eyes, stellar thunder;

they are supercharged particles of stardust, and not tears,

which fall from my eyes.

I am an astronaut’s painting, blasting omnipotent colors,

crackling with the brilliance of a billion suns.

So hold my hand, touch my hair,

rest your leg against mine so we might share our powers.

For you, too, are a nebula,

a universe,

with a unique light

that we can explore.

The Veil and the Galaxies: A Poem


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I wear a veil.

It doesn’t cover my face

but it covers my chest,

protecting all the swirling galaxies that lie inside.

And I protect this veil religiously

because I know the shooting pain

of the veil ripped open, without my permission,

or of the veil forced closed,

and held shut.

So if I show you my veil,

if I let one of my galaxies flow and fly

to you, I have offered a part of myself

that I am wont to keep at bay;

it is meant to be a lantern,

to lead you back to me, if you ever need me,

or a candle you can carry when you’re unsure and afraid.

If the veil moves for you,

you are trusted, and wanted,

and so deeply, deeply loved,

and even if the motion seems small (it is a microcosm)

it takes all my energy to brush aside that titanium curtain.

I have exposed all of myself to you;

cherish the glowing galaxy

you hold now in your palm.

She is a Beautiful Human


She is a beautiful human,

the one you see now,

before you,

applying her makeup in the bathroom.

She is filled with impeccable creative energy

like a light

that comes from within.

And it is nothing short of perfect,

the way her laughter fills a room;

every quality she posses,

no matter how bizarre others perceive it,

is just as it should be.

Now touch her collar bone,

her hair,

kiss her lips,

realize her body

and her beauty

are your own,

and come to love her

like you can no one else.