the sky slips into the ocean

one single clear stretch of glass

two edges of the horizon hand in hand

 

like yours in mine

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sometimes,

late at night,

i dream about breaking in and taking back

everything i had to leave behind.

 

this is not figurative.

 

although,

your disc drive on which is stored

every memory of my teenage years

does seem

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.

 

flight

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.

 

Franklin Line from Readville

I think

without meaning to,

I’d stumbled into thinking

I’d reached the outer edge of beauty until I

stumbled,

dazed,

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.

But then

I rushed in from the street and saw you and

nearly forgot my own name until,

miracle,

you smiled and said,

as both question and answer:

Hannah?

 

right

someday,

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.

 

someday

probablydefinitelymaybe soon,

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,

actually,

i’ve never cared about that and that’s probably not going to change).

 

but

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.

should i

i’m acutely aware of

the presence of a blue ballpoint pen

on the street in front of the house next door.

 

it’s been there since we moved in.

 

each time i see it, the question:

should i pick it up?

but then i remember:

it’s the same pen that’s been

left out in the soggy grey tuesdays,

the muggy sundays,

the breezy, humming friday nights and that

it’s my own mind

that remains hopeful, curious, confused

to discover,

with a start,

that i already know the answer.

degrassé

last night,

i watched as a satellite

carved a lazy path across

the memory of all other nights

spent staring at the stars.

 

i turned back to find your face lit up by

a moon rising electric above the rooftops,

hanging bright enough

to illuminate our fears,

as big as the sky,

as small as the space between us.