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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Encore

I imagine love
is a dusty rug,
heavy with the weight of footprints
and decades of stains we’ll never get out.
Come spring,
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.

Taking chances
forces us to breathe,
allows us to feel something
for the first time
in god knows how long.

Morning glories
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.
Listen,
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.

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Our Hairy Hearts, a Triptych

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 relative.

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.

———————-

Our hearts,
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.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
You can cry, but you won’t feel better.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
“Like” his post or it’ll look like you haven’t moved on.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
Displace the pain: Throw yourself down the stairs.

riiiiiiiiiiiiiiip
The pain’s never going to end, is it?

(It will.)

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.

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Kristofer

Thank god
for all the double-tongued digits it took,
magically hocus-pocused,
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.

My Love,
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.

Thank god
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.

Brilliant, you.
Perfect in a bowtie and curls,
yet grappling the Earth with his bare hands.
That’s you, and only you.
My Love.

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