on hesitance.

I like to think that I am reasonable and fair,
that my designs are of an honest and rational kind.
I try not to harbor any relics of bitterness or hostility
towards those who have hurt me, or hoard
traces of regret or doubt for having experienced pain
when examining the string of accidents and coincidences—
and my reactions to these sometimes beautiful
and often unexpected and earth-shattering events—
that unravel my personal history.
I’d like to say that all manner of things are well,
yet, I find myself—once again—sailing dangerous waters,
and just because these seas are familiar,
it does not make them any less treacherous.
I once again find myself questioning where I stand in relation to you,
questioning your motives, your intentions,
your (re)appearance in my life.
Why, after so much silence, have you sounded the alarms?
Why have you returned? Why do you want to see me?
It’s not that I don’t want to see you,
but you must understand why I am so hesitant,
why I flinch when you try to reach out.
You were the first person I ever felt love towards—
despite never having exchanged those words with you and
not knowing whether or not those feelings were even reciprocated—
and when you left, I was broken.
I can’t blame you solely for the ambiguity and uncertainty
that defined our affair, as I should have communicated
my sentiments better, but I often wonder
if you were even phased by the two of us together.
Did you feel the magic too? Or was I just mad?
I’ve been trying so hard to get over you.
I realize you’re in a relationship
and I feel silly when I think about you still—
when I think about how great we could have been together.
I just hope that this isn’t just some game for you
because I’m not a toy, and I don’t have it in me
to play make-believe.

I was hoping.

"it's a cycle really,
you think i'm withdrawing
and guilt tripping you."

I wonder if we stopped punishing each other
things would work out.

what kind of love is this?

Samson.

These are the days for living.
These are the days for strawberry milkshakes,
and getting high in the hospital parking garage.
These are the days for wandering out in the cornfields,
for watching heat lightning spindle across the sky,
and for following trails of twinkling fireflies
all the way home.

Saturday is my birthday.
I’m turning another year older,
but I’m still the same person I was two years ago,
I’ve just acquired more art and more books.
My heart is just as heavy as it was.
And as the stars fall on my head,
I’m still haunted by old light.

Rumor has it you want to see me.
I want to see you too.
Samson, please, come back to bed.
I still miss you.

great expectations.

A storm is blowing in.
I can smell it through my open windows:
copper, honey, the pasty sealing of an envelope,
sheets taken down from the laundry line,
the yellowed pages of an old and weathered book,
vanilla, freshly cut wood, electricity;
all of these spices married into a brew,
sprayed out of an invisible perfume bottle
and carried like dust on the wind.
It was the fragrance Benjamin Franklin
inhaled as he was tying a skeleton key to his paper kite,
the aroma of expectation.
“Remember the ferryboat that used to sail by
that lit up like a floating birthday cake?”
No, but tomorrow, I will make my way
down to the river, crowned in a chain of daises and clover,
with a crow’s feather in my back pocket
and see what the storm swept ashore.

on fear.

I don’t scare easy,
not like a horse.
It takes a lot more to spook me
than my own shadow dancing on the wall.
I’m not afraid of red azaleas,
or residual radiation and electricity
falling from low sailing satellites in the clear Connecticut skies.
I am not afraid of spiders—
they are teaching me the art of patience.
I was a little disturbed, but mostly intrigued
when I heard a story about an old friend, who—
seduced by crystal meth—was seen one winter evening
waltzing in the middle of the street,
dressed in a billowy ball gown, fervently thrusting
an aluminum Christmas tree through the air like a crazed conductor,
madly leading an absent orchestra,
and with one swift flick of the wrist,
stopping her symphony
to flip boney birds and howl obscenities at passing cars
when caught in their high beams.
I’m afraid of yellow skies.
I’m afraid of the secrets the government is keeping.
I’m afraid of never finding love.
I’m afraid when the street lamps
blink off as I drive beneath them—
an especially cruel extended joke to play
on the already severely superstitious and suspicious.
I’m afraid of Steven Hawking’s prediction,
that the aliens will be hostile,
but I have a hunch, that this time, he’s wrong.
A few nights ago I had a dream:
I could see myself, standing naked
in front of my bedroom windows.
The curtains were drawn open
and a brilliant blue light was seeping
through the blinds, illuminating my bare skin
and warming my body.
It lifted me off the carpet,
and I hovered, bathing in the glow.
And as it pulled me towards it,
I felt bliss.
I just wish something less alien
would make me feel human.