Selective Memory

Cut throat razors will remind me of you,

like cut throat words remind you of me.

I will remember yogurt scooping,

cake bringing, ice cream eating,

and messy room.

But how will you remember pushy,

on-time, omelet making,

and clean freak.

When you might be remembering

skinny dipping, house rules, nice bum,

doesn’t like chocolate,

and daddy issues.

But then again you might think I remember

socially awkward, baggy pants, always late,

big mistakes, you deserve more

and nice eyes.

What I know we know is special chocolate chip cookies,

stigmas, stahp, late night Wendy’s,

cry-laughing, medium double-double, 

and eskimo kisses.

Safety-pinned socks will remind me of you,

like safety-pinned seams remind you of me.

I Think My Soul Is Weary

I’m so tired. More than I just need a good nights sleep. More than I need to slow down, or life to slow down, or that I’m holding on to too many things; getting dragged down. I’m so tired and it’s more than just over-bearing responsibilities, not enough coffee, and too many late nights. It’s more than just a drowsiness in my eyes, in my muscles. It’s in my mind, in my life. I’m tired in a way that sleep can’t cure, that money can’t buy, that caffeine can’t infuse, that lust can’t ignite. I’m tired in a way I can’t reach, like the deep of the sea. I’m so tired and I can’t rid myself of it like a job I’m not satisfied with. I can’t ignore it like a friendship I’m no longer interested in. I’m so tired.


I’m not surprised there isn’t yet a word that embodies him. One must be venial to our language because it is missing a lot of them. Full of labyrinthine, mellifluous, effervescent words but none of them conflate to an equivalent of you. None feel quite right pounding themselves off my tongue, getting caught between my teeth, bubbling out of my mouth as I stumble over the assonance and cajole the vowels with what I’m praying is proper diction. They are amiable in my mind but hostile between my cheeks. I can’t figure out if you’re long or short, if you should rhyme or acquiesce to leave my lips. My mind dwales while I try to appease it, but I need to be candor.



  1. One who makes you feel like spring
  2. The physical embodiment of eunoia

Bone Trail

There’s a trail tattooed on your skin where my fingers have ventured over your shoulder and across your collar bone. I want to travel your body, write my own map. Follow your bread crumb trail of sun spots splattered on your back, guided by the North Star freckles on your right arm. I want to know every story of every scar as deeply as if they were a river I could swim in, I want to conquer every peak of your body over and over again. I want to feel at home on your mouth, know I’m welcome when the bells of my name from your voice toll. I want to be the light that spreads in the darkness of your heart in the cave that is your ribcage. I want to breathe in every stalagmite of smoke that leaves your lungs and tell love stories to the moon in your eyes. The arches of your feet are valleys I want to sleep in and I want to press every wild flower I see in the crevices that your joints make into a dictionary of words that don’t yet exist that are the explanation of how my tongue feels on your teeth. There’s a trail tattooed on your skin that my fingers will never stop treading.

(I came, I saw, I conquered)

Who told us it was okay to feel this much. Where is the science to explain finding God in someone’s eyes just to pray to him that you never have to see them for the last time.

Two Quarters But Only My Two Cents

I’d rather hurt myself. I’d rather understand the kind of pain I want – need – to feel than have you pretending. With your half-insults, half-ignoring me, half-hitting home. I don’t need any more halves in my life and you certainly aren’t mine. Give me your all: all the anger, all the hate, all the self loathing, and secret truths. Or take all of your incomplete’s and go home. I don’t need you like the residue of smoke on my walls. You want the truth? I wish you made it as hard to hate you as you make it to love you.

You have never touched me but no-ones fingers haunt me more; memories of dreams, taunting me. But I’m glad you never did. My imagination is satisfying and I don’t like being disappointed.