to write you

You ask me to write about you.

To write about you, not write you the way you throw wishes I would paint you back and forth between your lips.

I tell you I do not know to write about because one can only paint not paint about and writing is just painting pictures with words anyhow.

You don’t see the difference but to me it is huge, filling up the space between us in its enormity and I tell you to give me a moment.

I tell you to let me write you like sunshine, cascading light, tender hands that teach the world to bloom.

Let me write you like a magic act, predictable in your constancy, always drawing out awe from an audience that is as dark inside as the night.

I plead you to let me write you the way you hold me, soft marmalade skin, your heart whispering love songs to the rhythm of the morning.

It is late now and I weave my fingers between yours like patchwork, promise that to write about you would make no sense at all.


spilling secrets over tower bridge

The snow settled onto the chocolate brown of her hair, making her semblance even more magical than I had grown accustomed to. She tucked a strand delicately behind her ear and turned to face me.

“They will wave their hands in the air proudly and shout that the world was made for people like them and not for people like us, ” she began.

She paused slightly then and, despite the nature of the conversation, a soft smile appeared on her cherry lips.

“But, ” she added,
“what they won’t tell you is that the world was made by people like us, and not by people like them.”

We continued walking, our footsteps fading away quickly behind us. It occurred to me at that moment that I would likely never learn the art of understanding her.

flashbacks forward

You sit on the edge of the wooden chair while you speak to me, and you tell me of all the people who never fit quite right in the grip of your hands, and you look defeated and

I think it is crazy because you are one of those people searching for someone whose eyes consider the universe the way your own gaze does, because

you are one of those people who is far too much for the moment you are in.

You have plans that span the entire world in their scenery and ambitions that rewrite lifetimes and people like that don’t exist so often that we meet them all at 19.

People like that live entire oceans apart and write the words you will read some day when you open the journal they had at 19 and tell them that back then

you were writing their matching set of poetry.

coming out

I tell her,

with a certainty I struggle to hold between my fingers,

that I could never love a girl.

The car is driving through the winding streets as fast as the sound of her heartbeat but I don’t notice through the music. 

She nods, balancing a tepid smile on the edge of her lips as if it could fall –

any second now. 


It’s months later and her car is parked, stuck, the same way we are –

face to face.

I inch my way closer, her faltering breath immersing my lips like a fearful surrender.

“kiss me“, I whisper, as if the touch of our mouths holds nothing of the Pandora’s box I would later know our love to be.

She presses the sugar of her lips to mine and this time I notice the way her heart races like it’s running away from me –

and maybe it should have been. 



The next morning, I tell her,

with a certainty I struggle to hold between my fingers, 

that I think I am in love with a girl.

temporary homes

The glass of the coffee shop windows is worn out like the old sweater you pull out of your closet on cold December nights; whispering of memories and soft lighting.  Underneath the weight of my body, the aging leather of the chair caves, making me a home. But home is a word I roll around my lips yet keep inside my mouth; not quite ready to make its way out.

From behind the shop’s fading logo I see headlights, and for a second it feels like the cars are driving straight into me. They flash in white, the way the light looks when you’ve spent too long in the safety of the dark. I wonder then if maybe my head is a home I have found too much comfort in.

Around me the softened seats alternate in vacancy, giving my thoughts a temporary resting place. It is as if the chaos in my mind fills the empty space so as not to leave room for anything.  I then begin to wonder where my insanity would run if a human body took the seat it has settled itself on.

A strangled laugh now escapes from my lips as I bathe in my own somber confessional. For a moment, the image of your face replays like a broken record in my head. I allow myself to sink into this privilege, though knowing I will later drown in its guilt.  Before long I watch my pleasure turn to charcoal nostalgia, your darkness invading.  I remember the way the words whipped at my skin when you told me I was your home and you were my ruins. I recall now why the word home won’t leave the solace of my tongue.

The windows have now commenced to pour in more darkness than they ever did light; announcing the arrival of the night.  I gather every thought my mind has unleashed and cage them in the words I’ve written as I prepare to leave. Frigid air washes over my skin as I push forward the heavy glass of the door with a gentle care. I wonder if this is how it feels to leave you behind.