To the north wind I whisper,
and it blows through dry leaves
—gasping for an answer.
To the southbound clouds
I wring my body to give you
everything I couldn’t before.
I remember the morning
I pressed my face to stained glass
and watched our fingerprints
glide through prisms in the dew.
I was never a morning person
She climbed into her Corvette
the way some of us dare into love:
Face first and ass up.
I feel like we call it a whirlwind
when our hearts get swept up in the
tides of falling and gushing.
Lose yourself to the wave
and you’ll find breathing
is a bit overrated.
What if love was a bookshelf,
a knickknackatorium of all the trophies
you hoped your heart would win?
is wearing your cape
even when you feel you’re losing the battle.
There are days I’d trust fall on your sword
and I really mean that,
not even just as a dick joke.
They say you won’t find answers at the bottom of a bottle,
but sometimes there’s comfort
in dusting the rim for kissing prints.
Here’s a joke:
A man walks into a bar
and he doesn’t feel a thing.
In Tulum, we found that the sun
wasn’t our only heat of the moment.
Remember when I bike-pedaled to find you,
The Boy With The Orange Suitcase,
with my heartbeat compass.
I mistook your fear for sweat,
pressing my lips to your ocean cheeks
as bathing beauties in your tides.
Outside, in the late afternoon,
we showered to wash the ocean at our feet
—I scaled the concrete with my fingertips
while you clasped my ribcage.
We left the sky to blush with its peeking,
palms wild with applause.
At 4:30, just before the sun
began to melt into the ocean,
the waves would crest the softest blue,
pure and almost white,
and that was where I finally found you.
I imagine love
is a dusty rug,
heavy with the weight of footprints
and decades of stains we’ll never get out.
we can beat out our mistakes
with a broom handle,
the same way a boxer
may lose herself to the punch.
It’s in leaps that we lose ourselves
to the wind.
forces us to breathe,
allows us to feel something
for the first time
in god knows how long.
are so good at embrace
—reaching out to stalks, barriers,
and even the weeds we’d rather strangle.
You taught me the glory
in understanding flowers
as the product of work
and to experience rooting as an art.
So, I peeled back my ribcage
for you to plant something better there.
My ribcage garden;
You, a high-noon sun.
I lost count
of the days I could marry
the shine in your throat trombone,
where I would pour music to fill
your empty spots.
let me tickle your ivories
to hear you glisando
in tune with my trumpet bleating
(Baby, you toot my horn).
We can turn nights into an orchestra
—come, sit on my face
while I hollow your spine with my breath
like a bassoon.
That breath, my promise
to your safety net
to always be your biggest fan,
cheering on your tightrope-walker,
hoops-on-fire acrobatic leaps.
Someday, we’ll find a way to love
like it’s not our last encore.
We’re our best
when we stop fearing the fall.
When I was six,
I remember discovering
I could dip my finger in glue and peel it like flesh.
It was the first time I saw my fingerprints
and the first time I realized I’m human.
Five years later I felt it again,
when mom crossed the continent
for two weeks
on a binge
and never turned back.
Home is where you find the glue
to mend a broken heart
—A broken heart
is a side effect of being human.
If you say the word human 20 times,
you’ll find it starts to lose its meaning.
hairy like a peach,
don’t do well with masking scars;
Pills, therapy, glue
—and you’d better not use tape
because that fuckin’ hurts.
There are so many days
I want to scream like ripping velcro.
You can cry, but you won’t feel better.
“Like” his post or it’ll look like you haven’t moved on.
Displace the pain: Throw yourself down the stairs.
The pain’s never going to end, is it?
I never thought I’d lose you;
that goodbye would be petals
I could never catch to the wind.
It stings like bees in heat,
but I’m gonna hold on to all that honey,
because it’s so much sweeter
than what’s left
in this hive.
for all the double-tongued digits it took,
to red carpet you into this world.
Not that you’d ever need soft ground
with all your cloud-like floating.
My magic-carpet Prince,
my whole nude world
—and yes, I mean nude.
You know naked better than
dandelion puffs in the wind.
Pauper of Garments.
If only the world could clasp love
the way you pressed my fingerprints
into the stained glass window,
like a religion;
dewy as your hair after a bath.
I think I could live forever on every droplet.
the stars aligned perfectly
the first day your heart was designed
—a heart that can turn darkness
into the possibility of outer space
dappled with brilliant diamond stars.
Perfect in a bowtie and curls,
yet grappling the Earth with his bare hands.
That’s you, and only you.
Our greatest works
live in the stories we share.
We are an evolving work;
living novels, art of flesh.
We carry volumes of past to present,
of joy & grief
—a colossal library in our ribcage.
Maybe that’s where all that weight comes from.
In a single crow feather,
maybe god actually had it right this whole time.
When your bosom was molded,
it was made a sonnet,
a love poem from mother & earth.
It’s time to sing our stories
like birds excited for the first buds of spring.
We’ve all been waiting for you.