I haven’t been able to write a single thing for months. No poems or anything else. This is my longest period of silence and I’m not sure what’s going on with me. I even have these two or three amorphous ideas in my head about potential poems but I can’t do anything with them; I’ve tried but I just can’t. I’m confused by this…????

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midsummer feels like death to me. 
this heaviness, this limp way of watching the sun rise
and then fall again, away from us.
doldrums have left the sails of my heart lank,
and my blood feels thick and tired. 
I ache with missing you. 
But the wound comes from the idea that you,
you live beyond this summer dull stretch,
that you hardly notice your pulse, as I do.
That you probably watched me with the same apathy,
as I did the sun.
I want to be the moon, that pulls you closer.
But you have action in your veins and I
have only the lingering heat waves of May
and the taste of you on my tongue
to hold me over to the winter,
where maybe I’ll forget and then live again. 

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My brain, on love

and then you
and then, oh yes,
It’s you.
You, you, you, you, you.
Will it always be you?
Oh yes.
It will.
Oh yes,
It’s you again.

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i haven’t been able to write for three weeks, or something like that. ugh. 

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I won’t survive you.
that mind I live in
cannot weather the storm 
that your mouth brings
when it touches mine. 
I won’t fight the waves
when they consume me,
sloshing over my defenses, hungry.
for your eyes sap the will 
to batter myself against them.
if you have goodness
(and you must for I only love the good)
then you will leave me to 
float on, and live,
though I will drown in banality
without you to buoy me up.
I need your killing tempest
in order to want to live. 

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worth is not measured in longevity
so telling me that the truest love story
"is one that never ends"
cannot be true. 
what is divine in the human life
is the fleeting, the ephemeral, the glancing.
we are parted by life or by death
but nothing lasts;
it is the fear of the end that is a loss,
for engaging it 
allows fear to win. 
nothing lasts, hold fast to that. 
but dream short, glowing dreams
in the moments that you can. 

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with you

I want a rumpled sheets sort of life,
that gorgeous, filmy mussed world
that breathes of so much fresh cotton
and cold tile floors. That has windows
full of only morning light, and dew as the
only beading that can be seen at night. 
something salty and sea-stained
and weathered and worn, that might
fit me like the shirts of the first boy
that I ever loved, the shirts I wore for
a full summer and then for one more. 
there is life that is all wooden siding on
beach houses and white, warm milk
in chipped porcelain jugs, where lavender
hangs above the windows at night 
to dry by the sound of the soft waves.
the rough, brown bread life where the sun
and the moon are your time keepers.
I want this life, with these things.
and I want it with you. 

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To be the drying line, against a single, crisp sky,
is to be a dying thing, bereft of a sole cry
I’ve held you, starched and wondering 
as a fluttered, captured thing,
but how can I free you, when you only speak this lie?

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and you, shooting through space
like a celestial seraph,
you fell in love with a young girl
when you were young as well.
and now you’ve suddenly woken up,
hurtling towards twenty two years old,
frightened and groggy, long had you slept. 
everybody knows that this ends one of two ways:
separation by death or by dwindling. 
there is no shame in extinguishment, 
no glory in one finale versus the other.
the shame arises when you cannot recognize
that the choice is at hand. 

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garden fairy

you grew up with sticky palms and an already wounded heart,
some secrets from whispered arguments had spilled into your young eyes.
after playing flower girl at a rained out wedding 
you pressed your hand to the glass and told your mother that you 
"didn’t want to get married, not even to a prince."
and though you are slightly older now, and the hurt in your smile
doesn’t shine out with strangeness like a white sun at night,
you seem old when you tell your first love that you’ll never wear his ring.
don’t whisper in the garden to this girl, 
that one day she’ll meet a man who wants this so much, 
wants her name to be his and her yes to be said,
that she’ll nod her head and walk an aisle and say a prayer
for him, if not for herself.
not all souls are meant to be tethered.
don’t tell me that her’s won’t stay free. 

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I am my home

I have seen people moving around 
with little houses in their chests, building 
tiny rafters, small attics, quiet windows
with their bones and their skin.
and though you may stay forever
or forever leave tomorrow,
you may only have my heart.
I will not build my home in you,
and I will not live in yours.
I am my own home.
if you want to love me, 
you will delicately build the wooden frame
and arched windows that might live in me.
I am my home
and though we may be life long neighbors,
and though we might be loves,
I am my own home

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from the inside

these mysterious dark kisses on my legs,
green and blue and black, that bloom
like nightshade as I sleep
could only have come from your memory.
the same one that stares bright eyed into
my dreams, with hunger and apathy.
in morning, I wake to find my skin
raked with scratches; as if I am tearing myself up 
from the inside out

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and i’m wearing black lace underwear
with finger holes in them like peeping moons.
I swear I’ll wear your fingers on my skin
for a thousand years and then one more. 
if I got only one tattoo it would be your palm print
but it would feel like a redundancy, wouldn’t it?
if only you had lingered on in my life
the way your touch clings to the air.

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you told me that angels only live for a day,
created for just a score of hours,
and then dying with the sweet beauty of the sunrise. 
butterflies live longer than these, their winged brethren,
though perhaps ephemeral seraphs live more in their
briefest of times, feel more joy, feel more wonder
than I do in my longer (yet still so short) lifetime.
I spend more time thinking about angels
than a self-respecting atheist should,
so I try and banish them from my head as their 
creator banishes them from life and from earth.
even now, though I’ve outgrown these biblical husks,
when I watch the new dawn emerge,
I must confess an Old Testament sadness 
washes over me
and I swear I can feel their wings dissolving
into the crisp, new air. 

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night spell

Every night I light a candle
and sit it on the window sill.
perhaps I burn an offering of a cigarette,
maybe sing an incantation of a band you hate.
I picture every face in the world
but your own.
all of this so I can sleep,
so that you know you cannot enter tonight
through my window
or through my dreams

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