they would pick all the flowers from the garden
and watch them wilt

there is an ache among your insides
that never asks permission
devouring the immmunity
as you dream through slumber

matched with the frosty air
of dishes and glass
left at the dining table
of a meal
that has no end

this morning
it was bright and sunny
the pavement now
is dark
splotchy grey
that is exactly
how it happens

I just want to lay in bed
and forget about everything
for one night
I want to listen to the cars outside
they don’t come by often
but when they do
a part of me
wishes to go
too

possibility holds the weight of a thousand birds. I think sometimes we hide the person that we could be deep inside because the world says no do not shed your layers for me to see that is when you lose the battle. happiness is fleeting but maybe it can stay a little longer and beautiful things never last but maybe this time will be different but what if that is why they are beautiful. maybe it all ends the same but I think we know that it doesn’t have to and we wait for the world to change our minds when it makes us feel small. we cannot change it in the way it changes us but that does not mean we are insignificant. it does not mean it is not possible because the world is large and infinite and we are traveling through our own minds trying to find the person we could be. it is okay to be unsure I think everyone is a little lost and maybe that can be beautiful if beautiful things never last. 

good morning
light streaming in
under the blinds
you are still
asleep in bed
and I don’t
ever want
to leave

perhaps a little bit dies off each morning. flecks of memories that lived a little too long, I am not sure why. these flecks left behind no longer awaken dreaming chests that heave through the night, phantoms are heavy. we count the days on our fingers one- two- three- four maybe it has diminished before our eyes

but you cannot count much more than one hand before realizing
it is still very much alive

home is found in people. it is not the furniture. it is not the linoleum tiling across the bathroom floor. it is not the creaky wooden boards that squeak at night beneath the carpet. it is not the gas dripping out of the pipes. it is not the flickering streetlight by the window. it is the hand wrapped around your side at night. 

when I was seventeen I dreamt a photograph of balloons in the sky, inflatables of color illuminating the sky with its sheer boldness to be seen. floating up and filling these lungs with helium, breathe in. why don’t you float a little too my dear.

when I was little my favorite bracelet was a balloon tied around my wrist. when the greatest devastation was awakening the next morning to find it at the foot of my bed, lifeless, but still bright. like a tease that maybe it could still make it and fly and I would stand on top of the bed and drop it, watching the descent back down. and it would bounce softly a few times, a delicate loss it was.

sometimes it’s nice to pull the covers over yourself and hide from the world for a while. sometimes you don’t want to be seen. you don’t want to be bold.  the thoughts inside begin to explode like balloons that go off in the sky but we never see that part of the story.

when I was little I would wave them goodbye, say hello to the moon for me. 

it is difficult to turn around once you turn on yourself. sometimes we try and try knowing that it is not our hardest and we do not know why we hold back from the world. maybe in the end there looms catastrophe so we leave a little behind. you can get really close to the edge and still fall over. we have seen our train wreck in the eyes of others. it is not a look that is easily forgotten. 

is it possible that happiness can sometimes almost be sadness
because you know it won’t last

but the same logic cannot follow the other way around

unfortunately

then things might feel a bit different

and maybe we wouldn’t be as scared

I took a detour after work today and went cloud chasing
beautiful skies are temporary
they come back
but never in the same way

we are not defined by the desks we sat in, etching our dreams into the wooden tables that creaked throughout the nights. in bed I pull the covers over my ears and hear the lonely warmth play melodies until morning. coffee stains of newspaper scraps plastered over our bodies please dissect the parts of me that are hardest to break apart. slowly then gradually in this world of paper mache, paper fingers crumble to balls of fists hard on the outside but soft and tender they meet. made from scraps but pieced together and slathered with glue, hold together these stories I used to etch into myself to remember.

I. daisies in your eyes and scent you smell like spring engulfed in summer wildfire. you will see it in the glances you will hear it in the paused breaths and especially, you will feel it in the calloused hands of scratchy warmth. there are monsters in us far greater than these smiles could ever cover. you will see it in the eyes that blink once, twice, questioning, whispering, there is a pile of dead stars left in the chambers of my heart that cannot come out. I have coughed and I have screamed a silent hush do you think it is possible to lose yourself to yourself.

II. we tend to forget these nights and days but when you feel alive you could explode. the way the light shines through the car window while driving the freeway it’s nice to pretend that maybe you’re going a little further to a place unknown that could set you alive again. I have been asked time and time again what happened to you my dear. sometimes you have too many feelings and the next morning none at all and it is strange and hard to control but you are a wildfire, unpredictable and you burn burn burn asking them to put you out but there is a part that cannot be extinguished and that may be the best part. 

III. what if life had a warranty and after death you can come back. but instead of starting over you’re sent to all the days that didn’t mean quite enough and you will discover that the fulfillment of these forgotten days may be greater than your lifetime. sometimes we do not see potential until it is over. and you will breathe and breathe until you are a dead star on land, hoping that one day you’ll make it to the sky and someone will make a wish on you

and turn you into a shooting star.

I. the streetlights change color when houses sleep they flicker while no one is looking maybe someday they’ll explode and be as bright as the sun. I don’t know if it would work out they live during the night but empty streets make friends with all the stars and the sun is a star too so maybe it will be okay.

II. nights of slumber are filled with concrete and sprinkled with fiberglass while knobby knees shake under covers the cold is unbearable at times. the walls are frosty at night it makes you quiver but feels nice against my back and when you’re not sure of anything place your palm against the plaster and maybe you will feel something.

III. morning can hurt sometimes in the bury your face in the pillow there is an ache in my spine that burst overnight kind of way. sometimes when the light comes your world still thinks it is dark and when that happens I don’t want to wake up but I don’t want my spine to bend and bend and bend either.

IV. can you tell me where you lost yourself I don’t think it should end just like that. sometimes we look for things that we do not know we are looking for. someday it might not be enough and it is scary to think about but there are things that we keep to ourselves because maybe they won’t come true if no one hears it.

V. maybe tomorrow will be better.

there’s something about these friday nights. they’re particularly quiet and a bit lonely. the five days are over and you can gain a bit of peace of mind and slow down a little. even if it just means getting into sweats, carefully making your bed because on friday nights you can enjoy it without fear of the morning, and sitting there with your laptop. there’s something about the comfort.

and there’s something about going through these days not always wanting to go through with them but knowing that at the end of the night, you’re there to listen to me talk about my silly days.

and I would love to spend these friday nights of comfort with you. talking about nothings until the lack of sleep catches up to me,  and waking up to find that saturday morning is okay. there’s something about these nights that make you think maybe it’ll be okay. even if you’re not here. there’s this strange comfort. 

sometimes it’s too loud when there is no sound at all. you start to hear the dormant memories creep up again and they say it’s time to go and you sit there puzzled they haven’t left yet. it’s been years up in the dusty attic. I suppose that is the effect and consequence of burying moments as if they have perished. they always find their way and sprout back to the top through the most frigid of winters. they cannot drown in the ocean they cannot drown in home.

and through these nights and mornings, they knock and knock we’d like to go back but have forgotten the way. I think we’ll stay a while longer, and you shake your head

no
    no
        no