I am lost in beautiful words and priceless photographs that engulf my very being
I keep the things I love, in one form or another.
And this is how we danced: our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart
there are two headless people building a burning house.
In case of rain, there was always the shotgun
above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only
to beg some god to return the seconds. If not the attic,
the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes.
If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year
is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say:
this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies.
Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue
turning into a tongue.
I think loving someone is like being pushed off a 100 story building and when you rise from the rubble all your bones are working but months later you hear rattling when you walk like something got dislodged inside and your knees wobble without meaning to and it’s so odd another human being can do that wow we’re all skin and bones but around each other we become so soft and tender it’s awful and brilliant too
This is the generation that thrives on adventure
on last-minute trips
and one-stop shops
on gourmet midnight snacks
and serendipitous stolen kisses
This is the generation that tries to do everything at once
seeking humanity in artistry
redemption in catastrophe
and breathing in air like it is the last of their haunted days
I have learned to
love live with the imperfections of my person my writing