Ex-Boyfriend

Irrational
is not being able to fuck someone
with your new boyfriend’s name.

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It’s Not About You

There are times
where we have days that feel like months
or months
that wear us down to a fraction.
We felt whole,
those months
we were carrying eternity in our veins,
scrawled “I love you” in our canals
and on steamy bathroom windows.
It was a rush,
our love energy.

Jet-fueled from the start
by the magazine stand in Terminal E,
where the clerk ordained our first kiss.
It was always that way with us,
people coming to sip from our love joy,
to try to see what brave looks like
through the bars of our ribcages.

Sometimes I felt like a celebrity,
the way you could put stars in my eyes.

Every time I hit the small escalator in your airport,
my heart started beating my chest to bruises.
I cried every time I had to leave,
that maybe I’d let you bust out my wobbly knee caps,
so I wouldn’t have to walk away.

It’s not about you.
In the year after our break-up,
I’ve filled my vocabulary with those words.
Like, the day I realized
we translated the word “home” in different languages.
That our languages were war-torn,
bursting through our throats
to attack each other’s defense mechanisms,
even though both our religions
were based in love.
The flaw in my religion is
it’s not about you.

And even as I write this
I realize that, even if you never read these words,
I couldn’t care less.
It’s not about you.
For the first time
in a really long time
it’s not about you.

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III of Wands

III
Chance. Magic. Fire.

III of Wands
Never stop learning.
Keep your ribcage unlocked
to the beauty of knowledge.

III of Wands
Write your heart out.
Wave a single wand, spill ink,
for art’s sake.

III of Wands
Open doors over horizons.
Stretch your bounds
to become blind to borders.

III of Wands
Promise to love again.
Don’t waste your heart
on the failures of your past.

III of Wands
Promise to love yourself again.
You’re beautiful
—even the cards said so.

III of Wands
Love your spontaneity.
Even if it means
you don’t finish this sent—

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Paris Song

Even though it’s a warm evening
in Texas,
I sit up in bed
and wonder what Paris would be like
if I were with you.
I’d hum a song
that would stick on you
like honey
and we’d call it
our “Chanson de Paris”.

We had so many songs together back then.

Though it’s been so long,
even still,
every time I hear the words,
“…let our hearts discover”,
I remember you in the kitchen,
chopping vegetables,
and it was so pitch black at night
I could spend the whole time
watching your face reflected
in the window
(that’s how dark it got there).

Even though it’s midnight,
I’m hearing your morning voice
echoing from downstairs,
soft, but full.
Padding
footsteps,
cold, wet curls
lick my forehead;
I realize, suddenly,
I could call in sick,
if only to spend all day long
holding on to that moment for memory’s sake,
so I would have it there forever and ever and ever.
But I didn’t

and yet I never forgot.

Even though I don’t live there anymore,
I envy what’s inside that apartment now,
absorbing what’s left of your exhalations,
breathing the air and dust that held our sparks.

We loved there once.

And now I sit in a room
where the only thing I have left are possibilities.
A lovely little room
awash in memories I’ll never shake off;
the floor,
a thin film of yesterday’s ramblings;
an open window,
the answers to tomorrow’s questions.

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Stained Glass

To the north wind I whisper,
“Come back”
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

until you.

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Kissing Prints

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?

Bravery
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.

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Ìcaro

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.

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