Oh, heart

How many ways can a heart break?

How many ways can it be seen?

 

It’s different than being watched–

that’s what they teach us

(that’s what I’ve learned, anyway).

 

They are watching me, all of them:

walking, sitting, eating, drinking,

readying themselves

to be the same animal I am.

 

But they don’t teach us that.

Animals?

What animals?

 

Do squirrels know a broken heart?

A lost friend, cousin, partner,

hopeful wanna-be?

Do humans have a “special”

bone in their bodies?

 

Back to heart break, then.

 

One way, friendship.

You make excuses.

You give them the room they need to hurt you

because you love them, and so they leave you

(congratulations on your wedding–

your dress was snug, but otherwise alright.

P.S. I don’t know how to forgive you).

 

Sometimes, you hurt them, friends.

Sometimes, you don’t know how or why.

Letter to future self (heck no, past self):

communication is a measure of maturity.

If someone won’t talk to you, it’s not your fault.

Go find someone that will, and send your love

to the quiet one. Fuck them, but love them anyway.

 

And then there was the time you fell in love with her

anyway, the time you learned that it was possible.

The world of love is not only “he’s” and “she’s.”

That is good.

 

And then you look behind that crevice in your heart’s

third chamber and you see all the “he’s”:

the high school acquaintance, the high school sweetheart,

the best friend. You see the quiet, lonely college boy

in the body of a man, the head-one-size-too-big gentleman

who was not so gentle, took a plane to Berlin

and never called again. You see the stupid in-betweens

who you never really cared for, who sunk you down

slowly, slowly,

and the one you learned from for a year,

but still kind of reminds you of Arnie.

 

And then there’s you.

The perfect face. The perfect hair.

The perfect laugh. The perfect stare.

All the perfections of a momentary crush

that don’t seem to shake off.

 

You’re just the next one to break my heart.

 

I don’t want you to, though. It feels too good

thinking of you. So I’ll keep the talking to a minimum

in my head, save it for next time I see you and make up

another story of how I’m not good enough,

of the ways your perfection (I know “there’s no perfect,”

but you still mesmerize me)- could never consider

looking my broken hearted way.

 

But you don’t know how I feel, do you?

Why would you?

I’ve known you for 2 years

but have felt this for 2 months.

 

It never makes sense, remember?

 

Because humans are not special.

Because no one is watching.

Because we’re all just trying

to find someone,

some one,

to see us.

 

Titled inspired by/owed to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tqvuydbEv10
September 30, 2018

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A Song For You

To write a song for you…

I’m not sure

that would be enough

to conquer all the land mines

and droughts of ego,

to call back love and light and mystery

all in their due time.

You are an angel

from a sky I have not seen;

you are a fighter

sent to battle with the demons of our ancestors,

a capitalistic machine

that drowns us all in its own way;

you are the oxygen tank.

 

Take your place on the stage, my dear,

and I will hear your heart sing before your lungs,

will promise to throw every rose

from my garden up to you,

to let you take a bow,

to strike up a conversation with my neighbor

when he says, “God damn, that child sure does know how to sing,”

to which I will say, “And she sure does know how to live.”

 

May 6, 2018

Hello

my darling,

sleeping in this bed,

waiting until

there’s only now

and no tomorrow;

each cell

a masterpiece

of sound and I

celebrate

the beauty

that has come

into my life.

 

Slowly, sun lifts

from eyebrow

to eyebrow,

yawns across the sky

and grants us a grin–

now tell me again

of this thing called love?

I hear you

in the night,

just as gentle

and unafraid

as you are

in the morning–

sun shining,

blades of grass

shooting upwards,

following my mind’s eye

as I send

a word of thanks

to whatever god

there is for sending

you to me.

 

How many steps

were taken,

books read,

conversations had

until you reached

my lips?

How many times

did we scream,

“When?”

before I could

tell you,

“Now”?

 

It is always now.

 

It is always now

that I will love

your midnight kisses,

blush as you name

your reasons

for loving me;

now is the time

I love you

and the tongue

you use to speak,

words of rise

and triumph

and resistance

and awe.

 

Now is a time

for no time,

for no thing,

except our cells

lighting up,

greeting each other,

saying,

“Hello, again…”

 

March 8, 2018

 

What do you do

when you’re tired

like the world meant for you to be

and you’re broke

like the world meant for you to be

and you’re lonely

like the world meant for you to be?

 

You get angry

like Earth meant for you to be

you find truth

like Earth meant for to find

you fight back

like Earth meant for you to do

you let go of the world

like Earth meant for you to do, too.

 

You build a new world.

 

February 11, 2018

 

Rebel

Lets celebrate
the gift that has been lent to me–
let us remember
that thought is unnecessary unless there is a problem…and there is no problem here.

The curves and edges of elbows and shoulders and thighs and necks
swooped over the sides of balconies,
either wishing for a way out or a way into
this life, this body, this mind and energy granted to us from some source unknown
and yet completely home;

let us celebrate the pleasure of being in it, of stomping up and down stairs when we are mad,
of walking away from a first kiss, drifting,
of eating a warm flaky croissant, of feeling
the fat roll around my insides as my heart grow outwards, reminding me to celebrate the choice
to observe, to take in,
to learn about what is worth thinking about, challenging, questioning — and what is worth knowing to be truth
and nothing more.

Celebrate your womanhood.
To be a woman
and to pleasure in it…
that is rebellion.

January 21, 2018

Untitled

You

are my grounding love.

 

Lifting me up,

love tingles;

grounding,

love soothes,

gives permission to be

rather than question.

 

So much time

is spent questioning:

twenty pools of Walden Pond water and I always try to sift my way out–

but this is sea, not sand.

 

Knowing your face

is part of my fate…

yes, I feel butterflies,

but they are not fluttering,

they are gliding–

spreading their golden wings over my insides,

reminding me that I am home.

 

 

January 3, 2018