no, ange

it would be nice to see motionless hands
and shiver under white paper showers
and stop these flowers, it would be nice for me

and i just want it to be christmas again
and for you to make everything shine for me
and me to not need to make it right for you

in high treetops i’d rather let gravel fall like grains of rice
and give up taping everyone but you

and press 'pause' and never leave the truth in blocks of ice

but change everyone's mind, and never leave at all

jewels and good endings

i gave you a lot of ways out
a lot of caution tape and doors
and it’s like you not to go
and it’s king arthur to me, you’re not a leaver
(or a roadkill, or a beaver)
and really, there’s only one person
i’m afraid to abandon, and it’s not you
because i’m not afraid of missing any of you
just her

but it’s me
and i can’t cry out the truth in eye colors because
i don’t cry much and there’s no such color
and perhaps no such truth, not anymore
it’s the first lines that sound wrong to me
and i was always better at leaving
at the right time, and ending
on a sweet note, like everything i wrote
about false battle and devotion "hard to begin
and easy to end"
and "fields of gold" and imaginary friends

saltwater dishwashing

i can’t drown if the ocean is
all of me, i can’t drown in myself
when leaves flutter above sea level
with my hands, and i can
swim to them

the whisper of your eyelashes
draws out blood and muscle
tying strings through dark
ribcage trenches, pulling out
so much salt and water that
a mere ocean would blow
to the poles, left bone dry
with nothing but sand after the encounter
but it wraps in quantum days
and i am far, far
deeper than that

the splash of rocks in your eyes is
a dangerous push towards
odette dives
or to close mine
shut my ears, melt
my body, turn to water, let each particle
betray and abandon its family
and sparkle, a little bit of bright light
on every blue crest

but mine are green
i build islands
and i can swim

foreign diplomacy

your mind is foreign countries
sharp as ninja knives, dumb as
spit off the eiffel tower. and
heavy air (but not just april)
clouds horizons i’d maybe rather
not reach

when i talked about waves it was not
sinusoids and i promise i understand
just not you
and my sinuses are clean
my hands in black sea salt
and i just don’t know who you are

i need surgery as much as you
need a belt and i want all those knives
kept blunt, by making sure
your words are not. and yet

even patheticness
is a part of my noble ancestry
and sweaters, well, even the itchy ones
keep you warm

mona lisa

you're like her, far from me
through dangerous glass that i don’t trust
to not fog up with my soft breathing
and anything you say today
sounds like a heavy heartbeat
a little too rabbit-like to be catching
but the fog helped.

you’re just like her, i can’t seem
to understand the sight or take in
every facet of your form or
countenance and maybe
i won't ever, without leaving fingerprints
on your face and learning
what you are smiling about today
(or forgetting to) but
no matter if you do or not, mine
won't go away.