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

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.



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.


second to last day

miss do you think i should cut my hair

for my interview at the courthouse? you

asked me today.


do i think you should cut your hair?

the hair that took you a year to grow,

the hair that marks you

the kind of person

who would have been

my kind of person–

the spray-painting cracked parking lots at dusk and

swinging on the playground in the dark kind of person–

if we’d gone to school together?



i don’t.

but what i think

and what the world thinks

aren’t the same, are

in fact

growing more and more heartbreaking

in their difference.