this is the jacket with the sewn-on sleeves

handstitched, threadbare,

one pocket on the left side

no buttons, just thread and

sun-tinted circular outlines

we wore it

over and over again

you in one sleeve and

i in the other

fit so well but

it's frayed now

left on the clothesline and

the pocket's been ripped off by the birds

now it sits in the closet.

waiting for repair,

needle threaded but hands hesitating

it's frayed now

doesn't fit the same but the

fabric's softer than ever when you touch the collar

fingers remember the stiff form, the original sleeves

it will see more bad days

lose more threads and wear holes into the fabric

and so we shall

remake, patch, and pin

see the sunlight and dissolve some more

since nothing worth loving

ever need sit still in the closet forever

we wear it

over and over again

we are but shadows of endless shapes

flung against walls by light sources unknown

performing plays for cosmic gods

words known and unknown to our ethereal bodies

curved cave walls, if we could catch a glimpse,

plato himself a bent figure next to the rest

see the fingernail scratches

hear the screams of misfortune from ancestors unseen

fire lights our souls, expelling the dark

shapeless void of ourselves - battling the mold -

catchless creatures without beginning or end

toiling in endless bliss until it disappears

til the earth dissolves around us

the cave falling into itself and eating the sand beneath

worlds collapse into worlds until

we are but shadows of endless shapes

in case of emergency, break glass

now lying here, shards on the ground

that i won't touch.

shining back with images i can't bear

to look at.

it's my face reversed.

tendrils of black shadows curled around

my shoulders, reading rows of text on

a blank phone screen

like lines in a twisted play.

the sun goes down

up again.

i'm still lying here, forehead resting

on the carpet in my closet like they

won't find me here, but they do.

fingers sharp with blood or the other way around

it is crowded.

i cannot count the number of glass shards,

each a new possibility. each a slightly

different version of the things that will

go wrong. spiraling and fractaling in sick

patterns until i'm not sure which me is me

or her or it or me or them.

all of them feel the same doom,

see the same end.

picking up the pieces cuts.

picking up the pieces is impossible.

it will never become one image,

my face will always be split into too

many directions. but

i cut my fingers picking them up.

i can't see your glass and i don't know

if you're doing the same, or more likely

it never broke.

but mine will be forever different.

if you stack up a bunch of

tiny pebbles, they fall.

they do not hold their shape,

and gravity will get the best of them

every time.

- -

cupid's arrow had lodged itself

finally and fully

inside my chest.

but does it pierce a lung?

only if i breathe too deep.

time pendulums;

hearts do too.

we should have gone to sleep like normal.

but it wasn't normal, because we know there's

an end,

a beginning,

an end,

a cycle.

you joke

we disagree

i laugh

you tease

i acquiesce

you jest

i disapprove

you continue

i give up

we sleep.

you sleep.

i

lay awake staring at the shapes of your face

wondering how i got here and why we're so

close when all i want to do is be far away this

once i let you do the things you do because i

am weak and i will do it again because i am

small i am so small i am stacking myself up

only to be knocked over and i do not know

how to tell you this,

i am in my own bed,

you are laying so close, asleep already,

and i wish i could be too.

but i am awake, curled up

with my back to you,

tears falling like pebbles

onto the bed. silent

as always.

i cannot sleep or bear it or wake you up.

i move to the bathroom counter,

fluorescents drying the tears on my cheeks.

i let the world fuzz through my head.

and when you ask what is wrong,

my words are i feel stupid.

i do. i place blame on myself first.

i breathe the smallest fraction of what was

in my head, in tiny three-word sentences

that make me sound like a child.

you finally apologize.

i had asked you to apologize before,

and you finally do. is it better now?

am i better now?

are we?

is it me, is it us, is it you?

i can't see past the scattering

of pebbles on the floor

getting kicked around while

i scramble to pick them back up.

climb through

i was promised a piece of you

chewed up, skinny enough to fit down a plastic straw

now we've got needlepoint dreams

sweaters on the backs of rocking chairs

green garden yard for running feet

fantasy

when life is bigger than words

even though i imagine it

some moments

can feel the want of it in my bones

like fizzy irrational madness

hang up the hat on

the hook by the door

warm your feet by the fire

take a breath

one breath

touch my skin again

tell me it's not this

when it is

when it isn't

skin

flowering plant

symbiotic

too much sun

head on backwards

never

maybe

forever

promise

but promise for later

Seven o'clock on a Tuesday feels like a warp in time and space. Some kind of illusion of life, twice every 168 hours. Seven o'clock AM and seven o'clock PM.

Maybe it's the way Tuesday is sandwiched by other days; Monday begins the week, Wednesday sits squarely in the middle. Tuesdays are meaningless by comparison. In the same way, seven o'clock is sandwiched by meaningful hours; six is just after work, eight is when it's finally late enough to start the slow process of going to bed. Seven is neither.

It is seven PM. Tuesday. I have given up on the night and stand vulnerable underneath the tepid water of my shower. When I inherited my parent's house after my mother's death, I inherited a glass shower. The mirror is just across the bathroom, so you have the pleasure of turning your head to the side and watching your own naked body go through the motions of having a shower.

It is unsettling to say the least, and discorporate to say everything else. To see out of the corner of your eye a pale elbow move in a room you know has no other beings: it simply takes you out of it. You realize that you may never have existed in the first place, that your current consciousness is somehow stuck in this place, in this moment, on a Tuesday, watching the strange fleshy body of a man moving under water.

And then you think, what is a Tuesday, and why? Who assigned weeks, let alone days? As the sun moves further and further away from the spec of land that this being currently inhabits, won't the very idea of time itself no longer be fixed? Isn't it changing, little by little, and does any of it matter when this being can barely comprehend the size of space itself? The vastness of the universe, when it sees so little, breathes so feebly, scrubs its soft skin even though soon it will die, be a pile of bones, be consumed and forgotten by the rest of the universe.

I step out of the shower, and nearly no time has passed. My wristwatch, resettled into the divot beneath my wrist bone, perfectly covering the palest, thinnest flesh that hides my pulse, reads 7:21. As if the time matters.

A watch, like so much in life, is really only symbolic of my inability to separate myself from the needs and wants of society. Time, as a concept, really has no meaning on my life, other than the inevitable and impending time-crunch that is my lifespan. That which has a beginning and end. The middle time is wholly inconsequential, but others try to convince me that it is not.

Days are cyclical; weeks are cyclical. The hours never change and yet we are constantly reminded of them. To what end? I still can't figure it out. Because it's always Tuesday, it's always Tuesday at seven o'clock, and there's nothing at all I can do about it.

2.6.25

i stop on street corners

watching the colors of the sky

crash like waves against each other

watch the moon devour the sun

devour the moon again,

when the time comes

over and over again

if this is the clock then

i'm the cuckoo

running water through my head

just thoughts to wash out the old ones

we're made of time.

until we aren't.

isn't it all silly when

the sky can devour itself,

when it can do the very same to us

i want to hold you

i want to hold you as the waves crash

i need you here

i need you here when the clock strikes again

seems like i miss her

seems like i miss you

seems like i'm alone again

this is a melting sky

running through futures

and i watch you in them,

i want you in them

i'm chasing something

same as the moon chases the sun

though the winds may blow,

tired feet trek on.

shadows of unused railroad lay beside

boot tracks carefully marked.

it will lead me -

following scent my nose did not smell,

running through fields my eyes did not see,

diving deeper and deeper into oceans my legs could not feel.

i am with you.

the sun knows nothing of the turning

i do, the nights without sleep

or the days wandering by.

no planet, sand, or hand could capture

the slow drawl of time.

the weakness of my heart as it drags.

the hours without.

how my mind travels.

somehow you define a piece of me,

despite myself, my inner workings and learnings.

you are with me.

like a sailor's boat, i am storm-ridden,

lurching towards light at the hands of a sailor i do not know.

compelled by forces greater than i.

i will go,

because Fate herself, who has brought us together,

is blowing the wind through the lands,

forming a loop.

i will go further, so that i can get closer.

i know where you are, always. in my heart.

though the winds may blow,

i will know you.

i will find you.

i am with you.

perhaps life is an illusion

and i have lived too many lives

in the skins of paper and ink

but i have pondered time and time again

what is connection, attraction, desire, and admiration

they are painfully distinct

and they are the same

lived and relived

through every human through all of time

recorded, reimagined, reviled, and relished

in every instance unique

i do not know boundaries or language or truth

i do not distinguish fear nor heartache nor exhilaration

it is one as i am one

i approach death in every and all moments

equally as i approach life

breathing language i cannot begin to understand

sharing soul, earth, and body in ways only mortals can

i am yet broken

i am yet inspired

i am yet bound by those i love and am loved by

i cannot define the lines, rules, or meanings

i do not know what is fair, fear, or folly

i cannot fathom meaning beyond love

as concept, as truth, as immeasurable and immaterial

i do not know the meaning of what i write, only that i do

i do not know the meaning of love, only that i must

1.2.2025

back

resting on hard metal

of the bedframe i slept on

for most of my life

back

in the room where i

wished on baby teeth

scribbled on diaries

slept on rainbow sheets

didnt think it would

happen

here now

but i cried in the car

and

we pretended i didnt then

you

waited on me to pack a bag and

i couldnt

couldnt hold in

illogical tears

squatted besides a table

i painted for my sister and

held my hands over my mouth

and sobbed

and waited for you to find me

because i couldnt speak

cant speak

can never speak silent

back

behind the bed the door opened

and i didnt know it was you until you

put your hand on my

back

whispered

held me

waited

loved me

put everything you were carrying

back

until it was just us

and my tears

and i said im sorry

and you said i dont need to be

and we went back

to silence

tearsoaked fading carpet

warm arm around my shoulder

thoughts slowly fading back

to normal

back to someplace that lets me breathe

im still sorry

that i cant speak and i dont know what i am

but thank you for bringing me

back

12.29.24