You swallow
and I hear the crack
–
of waves breaking against rocks,
of lightning splitting trees,
of all my resolve splintering into
a million
tiny
–
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.
I am 21 and trying to find
the way to love you:
picking apart
pieces of myself like
bread crumbs,
leaving a trail.
I am 22 and
find myself knocking on
the witch’s door;
willingly
folding myself into the oven,
confusing love with warmth.
I am 23
and all that’s left of that house
is smoke.
All the bread crumbs—
devoured by animal
or in storm.
I was 21, trying to find
a way toward
loving you.
But I am 23 now,
and know that I
am the damn road.
And if I had stayed,
I’m not entirely sure where I’d be coming
home to.
If your lap would become rest stop
for my head,
would your fingers travel through my hair
a map made by tangles, the way they did
the first night I kissed you?
Were we really like that once?
And if I had stayed,
would that home be welcoming?
Would I not miss you the way I do now,
except be physically closer?
Would you leave the sound of lasers and
boss levels to stay with me until I slept?
But I didn’t stay.
And lately I miss you more than less.
But I don’t regret leaving,
because in the process,
I reclaimed myself.
So I’ll stay lonely.
And the questions can remain unanswered.
It hurts, but it’s truly for the best.
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.
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,
who GHOSTED—
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.
I’m crying
so that only leads
to writing poetry.
That what you want
isn’t necessarily easy.
That having someone
fall out of love with you,
even if you want them to,
is still heartbreaking.
That you know it’s the right thing
and yet,
tears still stream.
So,
you’re hurting again.
Everything,
this year, seems to end
all at once.
And you’re still too scared to run.
To chase after anything
worth having
to make you feel loved,
because you lost
another one.
And, even you’re surprised
that a piece of your heart went
with them.
So you cry
and write the poem.
You don’t say you love
them
’cause it’s not the kind of
love they want.
This time,
if they choose to go,
you’ll let them.
I crave
softness
in the same way
that I fear it.
Of wanting something
that feels like playing with my own hair
between two fingers,
but won’t slip away as easily.
For wanting patience
and the simplicity of
interlocked fingers
and eyes meeting across
the space of two feet,
sitting in the middle of a carpet,
knees pressed together.
I want a love
that I can study.
I want a love that
doesn’t fidget in the silence,
but let’s me take them in.
I want a love
with clothes on.
With smiles
and kisses that equally light
my body like a hearth.
And maybe this is best
that there is no current interest,
that I’m happy with friendships
and the little moments
I can’t plan,
the adventures to be had,
and the people
who walk back into your life
as if days haven’t passed.
Maybe I am given a grace period
from the chaotic rush
of romance to discover
a greater want:
a desire for tenderness.
