i️ look at pictures of mountains now and
i️ see you in every shadow.
i imagine myself the sharp curve of rock you
long to hold onto,
my heart the summit your own heart won’t let you abandon
What a miracle
The way love reshapes the world
Gives each rugged face new meaning
Except i have no say in these definitions
I am no mountain
it is much easier
to let me go
there is a mouse in my kitchen
small and dark and quick to disappear
like a shadow i almost don’t believe
but even with the mouse under the stove and
the soft canine snores from down the hall
this room is lonely
this house is lonely
this weather is lonely
and i am–
i am not very good at trusting things i can’t see.
the sky slips into the ocean
one single clear stretch of glass
two edges of the horizon hand in hand
like yours in mine
late at night,
i dream about breaking in and taking back
everything i had to leave behind.
this is not figurative.
your disc drive on which is stored
every memory of my teenage years
an apt metaphor
for all that you took that i wouldn’t get back
no matter how many
windows i smashed or
doors i pried open
while you lay fast asleep in the bed we made.
the way it feels just to be
sitting next to you
we drank three slow beers —
our bartender changed shifts, twice.
i never noticed.
miss, have you
ever had your heart broken?
yeah. a lot.
dang, miss! she said a lot–
yes, I ran.
not only that: I think I
might still be running,
cradling my heart close in my chest,
carrying it far enough away
from anything hard enough
to break it.
without meaning to,
I’d stumbled into thinking
I’d reached the outer edge of beauty until I
into knowing you.
And even if we never see each other again
(which seems likely) —
jesus christ, I’d been living under the dim pretense that
good was good enough.
I rushed in from the street and saw you and
nearly forgot my own name until,
you smiled and said,
as both question and answer:
i’ll just want someone to go to the movies with,
and to make fun of me for caring enough to notice
that i ended that clause with a preposition
but not enough to do anything about it,
someone who will love me for the way
i trained myself to
write my Rs in all caps, always
just to seem cool.
i’ll want to care about
what you ate for breakfast,
or bought on sale at that new place downtown,
or what reddit thread you’re currently
two hundred and eighty-three comments deep into reading (okay,
i’ve never cared about that and that’s probably not going to change).
i’m not tired yet,
of the gamble of romance; of
the seat on the train
across the aisle from poetry; of
the curious, fascinating, strange beast that is
whatever comes before love.