What do you call it when
a heart puts up a sign
that says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
[I want to take back
every love poem
I ever wrote for
other people.]
What do you call it when
you see yourself in
that someone
you can’t seem to
shut up about?
[My hands don’t know
what to do without you…]
What do you call it when
your head spins in circles?
[I can’t stop thinking about you]
What’s that thing
everybody seems
so obsessed with?
This year marks my twenty-sixth lap
Around the whole sun
The words you are here on the map
Of my existence reassure me
Because there are times I didn’t want to be
Where I’m from leaving the house means somebody somewhere will probably misgender me
Making me wonder what it really means to be the pink or blue balloon at a birthday party
Much of my becoming comes from wanting
To be somewhere else where the grass is greener
Someone said the grass is greener where you water it
I replied, sometimes the fall takes too long to come
Sometimes seasons change in a day and in a minute I am
Somewhere underwater
Forgetting how to walk on it instead
Some days there is bliss deep as the Atlantic
I learned much of what we call happiness is in the smaller things:
A coffee with a friend, the sun on your face, your mother laughing, or the moment after finishing a really good book
I remember when it comes to not hold onto it
That letting go means my hands are open
To receiving more love, more light, and more
Of everything good this world will offer me
That sometimes the highest highs
Come after a dip in the road
Of where I’m going
That getting there is less important
Than the company I have in
The passenger seat
Before I leave this world, I want to feel
Everything there is to feel here
Break my heart a dozen times
Just to undo the breaking
Because I know there is blessing
In the wreckage and patience
In the building
I hope I find a way to quit smoking
I hope the living gives me more
Of a rush or helps me boost
My mood on days I’m extra moody
I hope I forget how to make talk small
I hope I keep hoping things will
Fall into place the way I do
Every time I blow out the candles.
I bet coffee tastes better
with you beside me–
even should we
sit in silence.
Your presence
fills me
like steam curling
off porcelain.
Stay.
Even when the words
run out.
Even when the world
folds in on itself.
Don’t use words like ‘if’.
Don’t you lace
what may come
with conditions.
There is no such thing
as coincidence–
only moments
catching up to
what was meant to be.
I sit with a feeling that’s become so strange to me I don’t understand it. I don’t know if it’s here to make a home of my heart or if it’s just passing me by like a moment I cannot hold onto. I thought that I had pulled the connection wires on love long ago. Thought nobody could offer me the love that was necessary. But everything I know about love—everything I know altogether—is challenged when you speak to me so sweetly. Where did you come from? What did you come here searching for? Words become so futile in your presence. I find myself dreaming of the ways we could be together. Please, please, please don’t feed me more dreams of things that may not even be. Because dreaming costs too much to be in vain.
To: You Who Never Arrived*
I almost met you at the grocery store around the corner except you left as I entered it. I almost met you at the bus stop except you were entering another vehicle while mine was pulling to a complete halt. My shoulder almost brushed yours for the first time in a crowd yesterday. You would’ve called my name if you knew it. I would’ve recognized your voice if I heard it. Our almosts torment me day in and day out of this world I wonder without you. Sometimes I wonder if your days are the same. Everything begins and ends with you. Every dream I have, every wild thought, every moment I want to share with you. You, who never arrived, how much longer must I wait?
*You Who Never Arrived is a title of a poem by Rilke and is borrowed for this context
Dali 