This is a gallery of not my best works, and for that I am proud.
I have clicked and trekked into a false container of your stories, stories I had much preferred to hear from you. I know it may not be what I hope, but I hope for you in the same way that I dream that you hope for me.
Let’s write together. Let’s you and I come back beyond, forgetting all but this company. I’ll find the words for your tales, you color my rhythms. Write with me; you’re right with me.
There is a mildly hollow feeling that comes with remembering the unlikeliness of maybes. Chin up, darling. We’ll try again tomorrow.
Sometimes, a chat in the wee hours is the very thing you didn’t know you needed.
I am twiddling thumbs for two: one for almost-love and one for almost-madness. I cannot promise to indulge in neither.
Just when I thought the outline had found its conclusion, something broke and threw me down. Somebody teach me to shut up and shut down forever. May I never let you down again.
I keep saying “tomorrow,” I keep hustling away from my promises.
A list of disappointments:
– in your tough love
– in your non-love
– in your love
– in you
I am: discouraged, disheartened, disappearing
If I am not careful, this vortex will pull me into its white deception one more time. If I am not grounded enough, this wind will sweep me off to new stories.
You are a whirlwind, my whirlwind.
(I am getting really tired of all these feelings.)
I wish I knew what you are writing about when you don’t know I am reading.
Help me write these poems; I need your hands here. (Must I imagine you there?)
Things are wonderful sometimes, and it makes me regret ever taking the high road, the narrow gate, the road less traveled.
I need other words for “good morning” to say when you are not here. They are sad mornings, but I can still wish differently.
If you could only look at me and see the same maybes I see when I look at you.
Patience is thin.
I bite down the feelings welling up in my chest because my hopes like balloons had been popped by silver needles. I would have really like it if you were here.
Not myself enough to begin sentences, but your distances suffocates the town I’m living in.
Anxiety: the curse of worry and fear, stung with a lonely numbness that seeps gray into stone minds. What did we do to get here?
It’s always at night, when the doors are locked and the streets are dark, that my body aches for a long walk. I glance at the clock and realize it is past eleven. You’ve been in town for three days; I haven’t told anyone but I’m always hoping to run into you. In three days I’ve composed speeches and conversations with you in my head. They keep my mind busy but they don’t do much else good, because when you finally come around I know my head will go quiet. Some days I look at a picture of you and I realize there is no lump in my throat or skip in my chest. And I think I am getting better, until my mother mentions a girl or the other next to your name and I am on the floor again that night. I don’t know what it is about you.
Call it anything but love.
The rain pours rivers into the streets and I am engulfed by lovely, mad fancies to walk through it.
For five full seconds, I forgot your name. I forgot your face. I forgot you. But for some reason, my whole being launched itself into trying to remember, until your name floated back into my fingers. Why did I do that?