An Ode to the Future

Sometimes when I kiss your nose,

I think my heart can’t love anymore, but it can for you

and when I give you that look,

You know it,

it means that I have never loved anyone the way I love you

and just because I don’t love the same way you do

doesn’t mean I love less,

it just means I love different

and just because we love different,

doesn’t mean we can’t keep loving each other forever

because I will love you

forever,

even when the stars have run out of shine

and I hate the way you scratch your ass

when you wake up

too early in the morning,

because I will make you coffee on those days

and you won’t remember the coffee,

only the love because you have learned to look for it

the same way I see you put the toilet seat down

and call it love.

Seasonal Poetry

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.

Robert Frost

Ashes to Ashes

Take my hand, let’s ride the breeze,
electric air condensed to clouds
that take us up,
and up and up
past the sum of the all the galaxies
and the rising hum of the stars

that used to be so hushed in the quiet
thrill of the night sky,
but there is no sound like
the expectation of greatness rising
out of the ashes
you burned when you
abandoned your soul
for a chance at true love

and there is nothing like the love
you have for yourself,
the fissures and fractures that are etched
into the clay of your bones,
the remnants of a kiss with the moon,
her chapstick still lingering on your puckered lips
that pulsate with desire;

You are shaking and shouting,
your fist raised in triumph
as the earth falls away and you are left
with the skeleton
of who you thought you should be,
and it too falls away
until there is nothing but
wild horses across the plains of your skull
and diamonds where your eyes should be,

for there is no room in your soul
for grey ashes
that have long since been blown away
by the breeze
that took you up
and up and up
and showed you how the moon
loves.

 

Starfish

When I first learned that hearts were breakable
It was my fault—
I held it out and then pulled away too fast
and when I looked back
he still had a piece in his hand
that he didn’t want to give up.

But that’s when my heart told me it was
like a starfish and I didn’t have to live
without pieces of myself forever,
so I learned to float
on the crests of waves and not drown
when the tide came in.

But I didn’t want to float forever,
trapped on the top side of the ocean,
my arms and legs sore with effort.
I missed the feel of seaweed
winding through my hair
on late nights when I stayed up to
see the moon rise,
and the sand on my back when I slept
in the dark crevices of the sea.

I went down for the piece I had lost,
abandoning the open sky for his open palm.
The piece I thought I remembered
as beautiful was black with disuse
and would never fit
my starfish heart
anymore.

I’m learning that hearts are breakable
and even starfish mourn
the parts of themselves they lose to the sea.
I am not a captive of water or sky
anymore. I reach for golden suns
and arise from the waves with seaweed
in my hair. I am not broken,
only cracked
to let in
the light.