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.

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.

Take My Hand

Run with me,
not away from the pain,
not to some promised bliss,
but into the belly of this beast,
this present churning thing,
this changing of me
from self hating
and you, the aching,
into something that slightly resembles glory.

When the monster roars,
I will not give up on you.
Even if it swallows us alive,
I would rather go down, feet flying
then to be devoured standing still.

Run with me
even if we don’t end up
as glowing beings.
Run with me even if we have the skid marks
of shooting stars across our backs
and barely grazed the moon.

Run with me,
because though the future isn’t certain,
this will one day be memory.
Run with me,
because we both know it takes
being beaten in order to feel again.


God had a reason for you coming back into my life: some kind of life lesson. Even if it wasn’t what I hoped for.

 Even if we are left farther from each other than we were before.

Maybe this time is to let the illusion of you go. Maybe this time is knowing you don’t want me when you could easily have me and realizing

I deserve so much more.

Every crack lets the Light in 

To write again
with less names on your lips,
less fingers entwined with yours,
less reassurances,

More breaking apart,

To begin again
with so many chances,
so many meetings,
so many adventures

just waiting…

what a beautiful sadness,
what a joy to be alone
and know the coming of bliss.