on letting go

you took to the violet sky and left me here wondering how long I can keep you in view
if I climb a tree —
maybe that one we climbed last February —
would I see you?
a dancing orange beacon fading into
a year which exists only in the
aisles of my dreams


long aisles lined with
    dripping pints of chocolate peanut butter ice cream
        and glasses of lambrusco glistening with candlelight
            and books bought in airports which can’t be
flown                            back
        (you could though)
I wander down one aisle filled with return tickets —
or maybe they’re just blank invitations
I think about sending one to ask if
you’ve called your mother lately


but then I remember the way you use obligation as an excuse for cruelty


and somewhere,
far below our tree,
a voice calls me to come plant my feet and


name it
home


and I gaze out my new window,
I watch the sun rise and set,
painting all my hours with new joys and new fears


and I notice you’ve gone from its frame.

The sound of water trickling down the pipes
in the wall behind my bed blurs itself with
the rhythm of your inconsolable sadness.


Today you left your beaten leather jacket
strewn across the red armchair
and I knew you had changed.


I feel it in the way you throw yourself around in

                           the empty house         your full mind

                                                  your grief.


We stand opposite each other
framed by the doorways that lead
to the rooms where
we will both fall into dreams filled with
crystal ashtrays glimmering in the snow,
the smell of peanut butter on toast,
and beautiful apparitions.


Your feet are rooted firmly and evenly        You sink  deep into navy carpet            You exhale,


“I’m so sad. I don’t think I’ve ever really been sad before.”

the sun’s gone out
        behind JB LAUNDROMAT
               “scrape me off this stoop,” I’d say,
                        if you were nearby.
                                 are you?
                                          squares of grey sidewalk glow
                                                   fuchsia and tangerine
                                                            riddled with laughter and
                                                                     the commuter stomp home
                                                                              upstream   
                                                                                       upstreet
                                                                       upside down cardboard boxes
                                                            creating cityscapes within cityscape
                                                   each with a whole other story to tell
                                          about the lives of the people who frequent
                                 the candlelit restaurants and
                        neon bars that
               line the short stretch of pavement that
                        half this damn city likes
                                 to call home.


would they be right or would they be tourists?


                                                                honestly,
                        I’m not sure it really matters
                because all I want is to
sit here on this stoop with you
        and scrape away at
                all the things we wish
                        we said and did yesterday
                and lug them into tomorrow
        and make them into something tangible
                        just like you always said we would.

Falling asleep in the dark
you pass me a beer
that tastes like the raspberry cordial
my family used to drink out East on the hot sand
I fold myself
into the feeling of your skin under August sun


Waking up in the dark
projections on my body
like 80’s music videos
their darkness cloaks your soft face
their light exposing mine
that’s how I feel when
this new world moves through me
around me
projections on my body that
don’t belong
don’t capture
how I love you


If I could just move and touch you the way I mean to
when you rest the back of your hand on my knee
just maybe instead
I would be waking up
on your bright beaches
and stealing raspberry cordial kisses
and turning pink under your summer sun

lately I feel like I am made up of
a thousand cream cotton threads
dangling,
reaching,
barely brushing against one another.


once in a while
an unexpected gust or
a wailing rain or
a clementine sunrise
breathes life into them


and they move together,
painting my skies with
harmonious shapes,
powder pinks,
sighs of mourning,
midnight blues.


a dance that begs to be woven into
something worthy of being wrapped around
honest bodies.