in my room i keep a box
full of everything i’ve lost
and though it’s already gone
i fear i may never find it again
if it chooses to return
so the lid stays open
& remains as so -
for every evening i pray
and every morning i look again
with new eyes
will you be home again this time
I do believe
That I have
Fallen in love
With being in love.
I'd like to return this scratchy old skin.
It doesn't fit right, it's growing too thin,
It's longing for places that I've never been;
I simply cannot keep on wearing this skin.
Can I make an exchange? Can I pick something new?
Can I try on just one, or can I take home a few?
I don't mean to bother - It's just, if I knew
What other skin felt like, I might feel less blue.
You see, I've been having some troubles of late.
For my skin, it seems just a bit out of date.
It doesn't look pretty. It doesn't feel smooth.
It's itchy and sticky - Just feel it, won't you?
Everyone else seems to like their just fine.
Is it too much to ask for me to change mine?
It's either too loose, or alarmingly tight,
Especially 'round my chest quite late at night.
It makes me feel lonely, and strangely upset.
Sometimes, for no reason, it breaks out in sweat.
It squishes my lungs, and it waters my eyes.
It ties up my tongue, and it tells my brain lies.
I know every human needs something to hold
Their bones and their muscles in a person-shaped mould,
But mine's really quite wrong, and it doesn't belong -
Oh, please, won't you take it and pass it along?
You can find someone else who will love it, I'm sure;
But this skin isn't right for me, not anymore.
So I'd like to return it, and try something else -
Something that feels a bit more like myself.
But if you insist that it's all in my head...
I suppose I could make this skin fit me instead.
The evening tends to bring about
A certain kind of unwelcome nostalgia;
A certain kind of empty space
That mocks the darkened sky
Once the stars have gone to sleep.
I suppose that in these moments,
It does one well to create a map of the universe
Within their own mind,
A refuge of a transient sort
That will fade just as soon
As the moon folds itself beneath the horizon -
For when there are no lights to count
Above the ceiling, above a head
That spins too quickly to be grounded
In a bed made of feathers mounted
On springs and splintered wood;
When there is no distinguishable difference
Between earth, and soul, and sky,
And some vacant space,
It does one well to have a hiding place
That does not exist under bedsheets
Or within walls of an all-too-comfortable home,
But instead within a place so unfamiliar
That you can rebuild each molecule,
Each compound of dirt
And give new names to the pieces
Of souls that have run astray -
Swept away, impassively
To the corners of our minds,
Places where the dust has left behind
A trail to follow, to discover,
And to pave and dream anew;
For it does one well to create a map
To use when all the lights are out,
These bones you wear
Are a simple ruse
To place you in the earth,
To make the world believe in you.
The evening wrapped her up
Inside its starry cloth;
So tightly it swaddled her -
That she could not move
Or breathe, or speak
And so hardly existed.
Between flashes of light
From falling pieces of sky,
Her eyes emitted the smallest spark,
Just light enough to reach
The face that lay itself upon the moon;
And so that small twinkle
Of frightened, breathless wonder
Became a minuscule beacon
For all those lost upon the earth below,
Seeking shelter where
The shadows cannot find them.
Some of my favorite words are those
That have come from your very lips.
They have never been anything new,
Nothing bafflingly revolutionary
Or strikingly profound -
Yet they have sparked up my soul all the same,
Setting fire to my very existence
And enlightening me upon the simple
Yet elaborate joys of this world
And the way it seems to bend over backwards
To make room for love.
If you are troubled,
Do not apologize -
For we are each
L’ESPRIT DE L’ESCALIER
In the back of my imagination,
I can never quite seem to reach,
My thoughts like to visit without me,
There is a catalogue
Of all my unspoken words -
Sitting quietly upon precarious shelves,
Nestling themselves into dust;
Abandoned, but never forgotten.
Often do I think about
What they may have made of themselves,
Had they been given the opportunity
To fall off of my lips,
Rather than having been sat
Within a crumbling attic
That contains nothing
ALL THE REST
I would not mind
If the sun stopped
Rising each morning,
So long as I awoke
To the rise and fall
Of your breathing,
Of my head upon your chest.
I would not mind
An endless night,
So long as the evening
Was spent simply
Beneath the stars,
Counting all the wishes
We have made -
Only to have none
Of them matter
For we have found one another
Despite all the rest.