Late Appreciation of Hopeless Fountain Kingdom

thread fingers so easily,
fill in blank spaces
I didn’t knew existed
all with the touch of your palm against mine.

always asking for heat
watching the way
each knuckle bends
until the warmth spreads from
your hand
through me

and though we are in an ice rink,
I stop shivering.

It has been months now
and it only occurs to me,
listening to a Halsey album
of all things,
that you will never stop
being a fantasy.

That the thought of us
will always be synonymous
for what I believe love
could(’ve) be(en).
I think loving you is something
that has to outgrow me.

Until then,
it’ll be my hand
knowing yours
in the dark,
playing with your hair
just to have you mess it up,
you rocking in time with me
every time we hug,
our last goodbye

a broken promise.



You swallow
and I hear the crack

of waves breaking against rocks,
of lightning splitting trees,
of all my resolve splintering into
a million

You swallow
and my mouth is dry

like sandstorm in Sahara,
like shelter in monsoon season,
like heat unfurling through
every limb,
every sinew,
every cell.

You swallow
and I am so, so thirsty.

You swallow
and I wish I was
tasting you.

Animal Instinct

Every boy who has
kissed me first
has also left me.
And maybe that says something about
how my mouth is bear trap,
whereas ankles are normally trapped
my lips work as snare,
confine others’ because
it’s the only way I know how to beg,
it’s the only way I can convey “stay”.

I want but
never ask first.
One never does when the question leads
to abandonment;
why even bother the claws to break skin?

When you don’t have a chance of holding
what’s meant to leave you.
When mouths meeting are a different kind of speaking,
a “goodbye” tasted, instead of said.


Tell me what the hood of your truck feels like.
I think I want to melt into warm metal.
I think I want to look at the stars so much
that my love for constellations
causes them to tremble.
I think I want the sky to fall on me.

Tell me that that is a kind of love.

See us sitting in a field,
flannel blanket amidst wild flowers.
You murmur about life’s imperfections and I laugh a garden.
We entwine under an indigo sky
and there are vines connecting with pinpoints of life.
I think I want to root into earth.
I think I want the soil to take our fingerprints
twist our DNA
until we are nothing more than dandelion fluff
and children are wishing on the fantasy of us.

Tell me that that is a sign of blooming.

Tell me we can be something
under a dark sky
amidst swaying stems.
Tell me that summer is more than just “I think”
and “are wishing”.
Show me more than
“kinds” and “signs.”

Promise me
that we, too, can be wonderful.

California Dreaming (Writing About You Again)

We’re on a hillside,
overlooking the Pacific,
and it’s 80 degrees;
call it California Dreaming

Chilled champagne,
a fruit platter,
me in a silk robe
and you with a notebook in hand.

And I can see it,
your eyes covered by shades,
but there’s a twitch in your cheek
and your hand is steady with each stroke of the pen,
and I swore I’d never fall for a writer,
but, man.

In the twilight,
I look below and see Byron and Mary
strolling on the beach.
I hear Charlotte, Emily, and Anne
swoon in time with the waves that are breaking—

when I look back at you, head bent over a notebook,
pen still in hand, I stretch out my arms,
wrap them around your neck,
feeling you relax into it…

and you know
that I only write poems about dreams,
because no where in Jersey could we
maintain a patio set
without snow, or wind,
or the chance of getting it wet.

When the “Door” Shuts

So the boy
you loved three years ago,
cried two years OVER,
finally is in a relationship again.

And you cry,
before you remember

this is the same boy
who told you not to dance in your seat,
who smiled when he dimmed the happiness in your eyes,
who left,

So the boy
you LOVED three years ago,
maybe never stopped wanting
in some way, shape, or form,
is finally in a relationship again

and you spend the next five hours on YouTube
dancing in your seat,
and this time, it only takes 300 minutes
rather than 730 days
before you’re smiling again.