Needle & Thread

You tore me apart at the seams a little, and I am learning to stitch myself back together.

You Were Always On Your Toes

it’s so empty in here,
the gods cannot find anything
to echo.
your toes are still in the sand
(you were always on your toes)
as you reach up to kiss
the burnt sky.

Higher Love

I do not need my hands to touch
you, love.
Your heartbeat is in your
words: the reverberation of
your being, which
pulses in my bones.

Just Friends

When we say goodbye,
I always stop short before
I instinctively fill the space where
I love you used to be;
like someone ripped out
the last page of a book, leaving
it unfinished.

It feels so unnatural to say goodbye
like that–like standing at the edge
of a cliff.

If

if i can forget
my best friend’s birthday,
my ex’s phone number,
a drunken night,
then maybe I
will forget
you, too.

I Can Feel The Distance

The way the wind’s blowing, we are
between autumn and winter, you see.
We are
falling apart from each other,
we are
decaying debris
that will soon be buried and
forgotten underneath white.

Maze

All my mind is what if’s and self accusation,
but I know our limbs didn’t fit together quite right.
I know we both were in our heads far more than
we were in each other’s arms, and that
even with you next to me, we were galaxies apart.
And like any other maze,
we knew there was only one way out.
Yet we ran through narrow corridors and high walls,
frantically searching for anything
but dead ends.

In-Breath, Out-Breath

I know that all I can do is count my breaths instead of the days.

My Name Never Really Fit On Your Lips Anyway.

Your grand plans
reflected in your irises but
your mind was never here
with me.

You only knew how to
listen with your ears, so
when I spoke with
my eyes, I could scream and still
not be heard.

Your hands were frantic–always
moving, always reaching, always
grabbing– for something in the future.
You zig-zagged across
stepping stones.

You wanted to crown everything
on your to-do list, and my name
was at the bottom. So
I will check myself off for you,
my dear, because
my name does not belong buried
at the base of your toy chest.

The Poem I Didn’t Want To Write (I hoped this wouldn’t be about you)

I said
they were all sad.
That they were about
pillow-hearts ripped
at the seams, and feeling small
enough to be folded and tucked into
your shoe–forgotten about until
one day I’d tickle your toes, and
you’d pull me out–soft and
worn at the edges.
That I hoped they’d
never be about you.

And yet, I am
overstuffed, spilling over with
all of the words I wished
I’d pushed off the edge of
my lips
before I walked away. I am
praying on this paper
just to keep myself
sane,
just to keep myself from
crying about one more person
I’m supposed to stop loving;
one more person
I’m supposed to forget.