when did you become the albatross?

i want to be the one who got away
not the one you got away from

this slow painful descent down the
stairs of I Drove Him Away
into the cellar of It Was All My Fault
hasn't done much for my confidence

especially considering that at the beginning
i was the catch and you--
you were the leap of faith.

i never quite understood when it changed.
when my upper hand switched positions;
feeling like i was charting our course
to suddenly plummeting
to the depths of the ocean with a cinderblock
tied to my feet (already miles below the surface)
and you were merely glancing down at the water
absentmindedly wondering:
where did those bubbles come from?

i want to be the one who got away
not the one you got away from

and even as those in my life whose opinions
i value so deeply
told me again and again and again and again
let it go.
you can do better.
look at the state he left you in.
why would you want him back?
and even as i tried to tell this to myself
drowning in the blankets of my bed
barely able to gasp for air amidst the waves of my misery,
i didn't believe it.

not because i didn't recognize the certain
incompatiblities between us. and not because i truly feel that
you are the only person who could ever make me happy.
(because i see how in many ways you cannot make me happy
and how you already did not make me happy.
how you in fact made me unhappy.
the unhappiest i have ever been and could imagine being)

but because to me it is not fair
to go from being absolutely adored
to being merely tolerated.
to go from being the sunlight through the clouds
to being a begrudged obligation.
something now that hurts me more than i thought possible.
(feeling like i am merely an item to be checked off a list)

(at the same time, i think to myself
of all the moments that were perfect and eternal.
the way that we seemed to understand each other
and together be--what anyone wants to be with someone else--better people)
was that not real?

maybe i knew all along that
this tumultuous sea of  joy and grief
the swells and shallows of bliss and despair
would never last.
but if i did, i did not adequately prepare myself.
hold steady against the lashing wind and driving rain.
and all now i can think of in this storm--
this endless, defeated, uncomparable storm--
is this cadence slowly pounding on the shores of my regrets

i want to be the one who got away
not the one you got away from

please use other door

I make a point of avoiding

back entrances

side doors

and alternate routes into buildings

maybe it's my innate fear

of getting in trouble. 

of somehow mistaking one door

for another;

being somewhere

I'm not supposed to be. 

(and really, what would happen?

self-deprecating laugh---reddening cheeks--apology---door closed---life goes on)

or perhaps it's my tendency to

barrel headlong into situations,

to face everything straight on. 

I detest all that is sneaking

and passive aggressive and implied. 

subtleties do not impress me. 

beating around the bush (or walking around the building) is not my style. 

or, perhaps it is the simple

pride buried deep within my chest. 

avoiding the moment of embarrassment. 

because what is more humiliating than confidently striding up to a door,

self-assuredly pulling the handle--

only to find it locked?

all your vanity and self-possession

left with you

abruptly outside

in the cold. 

Restin' Peace

it's going to take more time to let this die

it was and is inevitable--

though you find it unnecessary--

it makes sense. 

you, older, more world-wise,

less soft. 

me, young, inexperienced (almost wholly)

you kissed me in your basement

urgently, as if it was

in spite of yourself 

(I taste the spite)

I was just happy to be kissed--

to feel pretty again (after a long draught of insecurity)
 

and there it was. 

irreversible. 

(not that to you it amounted to enough to necessitate being reversible

...until perhaps the side effects showed up)

this perfect imbalance 

you, so strongly deemphasizing 

(it meant nothing more than animal instinct)

me, almost comically overemphasizing

(it meant too much, emotions stampeding in)

nothing can exist so lopsided. 

in forty years, who knows who I'll have kissed

whose lips will have grazed and graced mine--

this clash of your regrettable momentary indisgression 

and my uncalled for reverence will be

less than a memory

if anything at all. 

but as it stands,

you are boy number three

and hold the title of

Most Recently Kissed. 

I don't ask a lot. 

just a quiet understanding

patience with the grieving process.
and maybe some respect for the dead.

drivers hymn

the road, just visible as an idea

or the phantom of an idea--

more of a suggestion of a road

illuminated by two feeble headlights--

stretches unknowingly, unforeseeably on. 

the truck ahead follows its own path,

leaving in its wake a cigarette

bouncing off the pavement; 

a swirling trail of sparks dancing urgently

on the road-- then passed. 

fireflies sparkle in the cornfields; earthly

stargazing made possible-- 

an old barn stands patiently among the constellations. 

the drone of the engine is the only sound

save the occasional gust of wind 

rolling through the corn, across fields

around houses, buffeting the car-- 

a gentle reminder to keep alert--

those unspoken, invisible ditches aren't 

too far or too hard to find. 

the drive itself uneventful, monotonous

yet peaceful. even comforting. 

those twinkling fireflies and old 

diesel trucks rattling past 

allow an understanding of the 

timelessness of the road; 

of roads traveled long before. 

roads yet to be traveled. 

the destination not important

as much as the getting there--

this endless temporary journey

down a darkened road only visible to

those with its memory still silhouetted

in their tired eyes. 

The Irresistible Urge to Look Up

one solitary Chinese lantern,
burning boldly red
floats upward, piercing the soft sky.

below, single parents with crying children,
old friends with a game of bridge on a shabby folding table,
teenagers shyly holding hands,
loud families with lawn chairs, bags of chips, cans of soda,

look up.

the crowd below, moments before filled with
noise and confusion
                                   
                                silences

as the lantern
so bright against the pale blue sky
quietly ascends.

the reason for this gathering of people,
this mishmash of old young middle aged
friends strangers acquaintances exes families

is another spectacle to be witnessed in the sky.

a patriotic assembly held
to evoke feelings of brotherhood and beauty
as we all look up             up            up
necks craned, heads back
our eyes blurring with forgot-to-blink tears, remembering tears, proud tears
inexplicable tears

as this all-encompassing, irresistible urge to look up
overtakes us

and
for a moment
the thousands of tiny distinctions we
make between ourselves and everyone else
are themselves blurred
and we become, not through some sense of pride
or patriotism, but simply through this upward gaze

united

May Day

the first time we went out
it was late fall
the leaves were past their prime
and the wind was cold

but the small restaurant was warm
and the lights were low.
the food was good,
conversation, too.

we caught a movie
not good first date material
too sad, too heavy
but we held hands through the end
and joked about it being a
mood killer.
in my heart, it felt like spring,
though it was November.

in January, the first day we were
no longer just two people
but two people with each other
in common

we ice skated.
it was unseasonably warm,
the ice was just a little melted
and our skates made deep divots
making moving slow
and hand holding necessary, welcome.

it snowed during the first two months.
we cuddled in the warmth of the house
and the warmth of our mutual admiration,
wishing for summer
planning things like how we would visit each other
go to farmers markets
make the distance work.

the third month started well
but seemed to fluctuate as often as
the weather in the midwest state
we had in common as home.

some days were sunny, warm,
and we didn't want them to end.
but, more often than not,
there was snow,
or rain, or cold wind.

the last day was unexpected,
coming off a few days of
70 degree weather,

it was May Day, and we sat
in the shelter of my car.

i shivered as words i never wanted to say
crossed my lips, begging for a resolution.
i asked for honesty
and cursed myself when it was worse than i'd imagined.
it ended on May Day, unseasonably cold and windy.

it snowed five inches the next day.

Senior Year

these days pass quickly
yet never seem to end
seconds turn into months
which jumble together in memories--
like a drawerful of polaroids--
bright moments, big smiles, candid shots, and poses alike.
trying to differentiate and determine
where the days went
proves difficult.

oh, the days pass quickly and quietly
even the loud ones whisper as they end.
the ran falls, blurring together things we'd never forget.
the sun shines, leaving burns
and memories of hours passed.
the leaves fall and bury the
things i think walking past them.
even the most important thoughts lie
deeply hidden under a blanket of autumn.

the sparkling snow freezes and
preserves winter excitement
while day-to-days get lost in the shuffle
of boots in slush and hats over
red ears and mittens held to icy cold lips--
leaving those muffled conversations
forgotten over cups of hot chocolate.

even the courageous spring moments
found amongst the brave budding trees
are lost in much-appreciated sunshine
and blankets on the grass
and laughter.

the days pass quickly and bruise as they brush past
leaving a small pang of regret
mostly overshadowed by feelings of love,
life, and excitement for all of the
tomorrows holding so many promises.

the tomorrows pass quickly, too
and life goes stealthily roaring by--
lost in busyness and boredom and blahs
lost in smiles and sadness and sleep
lost in those days, just moments really--
strung together like a
rosary--and, when looked at as a whole,
reminiscent of the sacred,
fleeting beauty of life.

and those times, those days, those years
that lasted forever
have become yesterdays.

Crying, Walking in the Rain

there's nothing poetic about crying in the rain.

the splashing, icy drops do less to obscure your heartache

and more to magnify your pain.

there's nothing romantic about the walk.

the rainy one, where you are crying,

stepping in muddy puddles not visible

through the cruel mix of water and tears.

it's not like a movie, the rolling thunder.

it does nothing to disguise the sound of approaching tires.

his car never pulls along beside you

he never jumps out and embraces you

he does not even know that you are

crying, walking in the rain.

and if he did,

he would say you were

being dramatic.

which might be true, but seems hard to avoid

when the heartbreak pounds as relentlessly as the rain.

and even though you know

countless people throughout all of time

have felt this same

isolation

this same desperation in the face of an

unfathomable storm

you feel alone

and unique in your misery

and every red car that isn't his

is a reminder of just how alone

you really are.

what makes the days better (or, reasons why i get out of bed most days)

1. the smell of a store filled with books--
feeling justified in judging them by their covers--
skipping over the ones with photographs of
movie posters, emblazoned with the claim,
“NOW A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!”
(somehow cheapening their literariness)--
thumbing through dog-eared pages and
opening crackling spines like
huge oak doors leading into both new
and familiar places

2. words
because of where they send my thoughts
“rain”--cozy, inside with the sound of thunder
rumbling softly across the horizon,
or on a run, fear of being drenched abandoned,
instead only the sound of my shoes splashing
through puddles and squelching through mud,
water running down my face.
“autumn”-- crisp mornings with the brightest
blue skies filled with leaves fluttering down
to the soft grass,
bright oranges and reds and
shocking yellows flashing on the landscape.
and “lavender”-- because of the way it sounds,
smooth, gentle, and comforting,
like a beloved childhood doll.

3. a hot cup of coffee before an
early morning ride
towards a long day.
the smell filling the car and giving me a
chance to breathe deeply and
calm down before the day launches into action.

4. sinking into bed at the end of the day.
bones, muscles, joints, bruises, thoughts,
and everything that ached, complicated, or confused
all settling down into much-needed rest.

5. waiting, anticipating, and holding sacred certain things--
kissing: for someone who truly matters.
Sunday: as a day of rest, quiet reflection, and worship.
and saying “I love you”: thought many times but
not spoken too hastily,
holding onto those three words tightly,
like a gift needing to be wrapped in
trust, companionship, and commitment
before being given.
stepping away from the world’s tendency to
make these anticipated things unimportant
and giving them their rightful place
in the realm of
what is meaningful
what lasts.

6. you.

Shields

I have seen what will make me happy,

what will finally fill the hole
in my life
that I became acutely aware of
soon after becoming a teenager.

I have seen my height and weight not as numbers
but as enemies. As evil things,
barring me from the happiness of having
the perfect combination of numbers,
that ratio so desired.

I have seen days and nights
(with parties, dates, and approving glances from across the room)
march silently past--
as a young boy watches soldiers.
wistfully, from the outside,
longing for a chance to fall into the ranks.

I have sat as girls with bodies
I quietly envy
tug self-consciously at hemlines
pat discontentedly at nonexistent stomachs
and shake their heads about barely-there thighs

I have looked in the mirror,standing
in the same spot they stood,
thinking that if they--
who took up so much less space than I--
are dissatisfied
then I do not have permission
to ever be content.

I have seen them like warriors--
applying their war paint of eyeliner and lipstick,
slipping shining dresses over their heads
like the frailest of armor,
and holding sequined clutches in front of them
like the smallest of shields.

and
I have seen that though
my heart
tells me that if I could be like them,
I’d be happy--
I have seen that this is
not always true.

I have seen their armor, crumpled
on the floor, their war paint
streaked with tears of broken promises.
their shields powerless to the force
of the night and its demands.

I have seen that
slipping silently into sparkling
cocktail armor
does little to protect from the
sharpness of life's arrows,
and does not ensure happiness.

I have seen all of this, but like a child
surveying a corpse-strewn battlefield
with an ache in his heart,
a deep desire to join the fight,

I long for my turn
to put on the frail armor
to coat my eyes with black and smoky shadows
and to plunge bravely into the night
armed only with a small,
dazzling shield, and a fading
false belief in the power of my
body
and its perfect combination of numbers.