It's easier to leave this time,
not because I miss him less,
but because I've left and returned once
so I know he'll be there again
when the trajectory of my life
brings me back to his continent.

I'm in his arms again,
surrounded by a home-
laughter,
the quick patter of running and loved feet,
a playful dog
(who is so sweet and such a lady)-
I am welcomed beyond what I deserve,
what I expected.
I feel like they want me to belong.

I don't want to leave.

If I never have to deal with planes again,
I will be satisfied,
despite their amazing
and welcome power
to make the world a smaller place.

I will miss her,
my roommate,
when she leaves.

I know it is good for her,
but I can still be sad.
She was my friend,
helped me to be better.

May her roads forward be smooth.

Do I really like coffee?
Or do I just like
the caffeine and sugar
and only put up
with the coffee taste for their sake?

This little coffee captivates me.
It is simplicity;
Its joy and energy
contained in scant few milliliters
That I have only just begin
to understand.
The art
is in drinking it slow.

Winter is settling in,
a discontent
seeping into bones
and attitudes made light
only by the twinkling gaity
of Christmastide
that roars in
refusing to be ignored.

Seasons change
and I change with them.
Who am I becoming?
Where will I end?

I sit here in fall
watching yellow leaves -
their brothers still tinged with green -
piroette to earth.
Pigeons coo
and peacocks strut by -
the geese do their thing I'm sure
but I avoid those paths and ponds.
I had never seen a duck dive
til I came here
and one plunged after a sinking scrap.

Children babble in the distance
and I think of the young man
more captivated by tiny humans than I -
how his face lights up with wonder -

Sunlight flits through leaves into my eyes
and I reflexively brush at my face
the way he's brushed my hair from his eyes-
All this beauty, but I just want his face.

Church steeples jut unto the sky,
mimiced elsewhere by tall apartment buildings like my own.
They are old reminders of pious times
when only churches and city halls scraped the sky.

I have a balcony on the twelfth floor
and from here I will watch the city change.
The trees and gardens
are already starting to yellow,
to adorn themselves with autumn.
I will watch the leaves fall
and snow briefly grace rooftops.
Then spring will come,
and color will come roaring back.

Spring will come
and I will leave.

I can see the cemetary from my balcony.
They have always fascinated me,
always tugged at me.
There is history there,
etched on every stone
is a stroy snuffed out
leaving only the burnt wick.

A dissatisfied Muse
is a terrible thing-
Yet how can I blame her?
I have been so stressed and tired
I could not listen to her song.

I am here now,
Thousands of miles from home,
Next to a river,
I place where she can sing
as loud as she likes-

The stress remains.
Exhaustion remains.
But I can hear her again.

I am a poet-
to sit in silence
and watch the world-
yet I must experience it all
that I might feed my pen.

To do everything,
to see everything,
it is too much.

That is why we die
with ink on our hands.

Oh the mountains.
I am captured by their beauty.
Their rugged ragged edges
cutting through clouds and sky,
cutting through each other.
They roll on and on towards the sea,
dividing peoples and tongues.

Je suis seule,
mais ca n'est pas grave.
Je suis independant,
et quand je pense
je ne fais pas des erreurs.
Et aussi,
je sais que le bon Dieu
m'aime et me proteger.
Donc, je ne suis pas vraiment seule.

A river's voice
depends on her secrets.

When she has nothing to hide,
when the stones at her feet
can almost taste air,
then she is wild and laughing,
chirping to the skies.

When she is quiet,
but not still,
Oh then listen carefully and watch.
Her ripples will tell of the stones and rocks
that guide her on
(or the smoothness will tell of sand)
but she will give little tell
of her depth,
which can change
with hardly a murmur from her waves.

Do not think she cannot be both,
for she often is,
and solace can be sought
from her myriad of tones-
every single one.

Seule,
in a bed sized for two,
I listened to a new song,
"The Traveler Alone,"
I think it was called.

I didn't finish it.

Overcoming anxiety and fear
to survive in a new place,
in a new language-
I will rise above.
Je peux le faire.

Il y a beaucoup a faire-
mais j'ai beaucoup de temps.
Un pied apres l'autre,
Ca, c'est la facon.
Petit a petit,
on detruie une montagne.
Il y a beaucoup a faire.
Je vais tous faire.

Les feilles commencent a tomber.
C'est l'automne.
Elle embellissent la fleuve
avec leur couleur.
Avec sa brillance,
elles creent une magique,
et je tombe amoureuse.

Les enfants
ils jouent avec la fleuve.
Ils aiment le bruit
quand on jete une pierre,
et vraiment aiment
rouler sur le "petit montange"
qui guarde la monde
de l'eau de la rivere.

Climbing in a plane,
which then climbs into the sky
and I fly-
ripped from earth
and ripped from home.

Who cares that I chose this?
That this is the right path?
I am leaving home
for months.

The last drive in my car,
the last dance
(for a while)
with friends.

A sense of loss
curls in my stomach,
unwelcome.

I will be counting.

Our last smooch was sevenish
On a Monday night-
I let go of his hand
And he pressed his lips to my forehead
At almost eight on a Tuesday morning-

I will be counting
For seven months
Three weeks,
And however many days and hours
It takes me
To hold his hand
And know there will never
Be an ocean between us again.

I want to stay like this forever,
The heat easing in its oppression;
The sky clear and bright
While soft summer leaves glimmer green;
Your shoulders next to mine,
Warm and yours;
Your voice in my ear every now and again.

Summer starts to end,
and I look towards a strange autumn.

Weather changes,
emotions roll,
and still poems do not come.

Friends are married,
and I could celebrate with them,
I could gift them a poem,
one for them and them alone.

He wrote me a poem,
and my heart is singing.
I'm a little light headed
and giddy
because he wrote me a love poem.
It's the first I've received and it's brilliant
I love it,
and I just had to share my joy with you,
otherwise I'd burst

He dances like I think a cartoon cat would,
shoulders bouncing
while he slinks back and forth
through the east coast basic,
a pleasant and slightly smug smile
creeping across his face.

I'm tired,
but that's nothing new.
I was an adult yesterday,
setting myself up
for international travel,
international work.

It's exciting,
even if I sometimes feel
a torrent of emotions
rising up
threatening to pull my stomach with it

It's apparently
"National Girlfriend Day"
and I'm spending it at work,
not in the arms of my boyfriend,
so I'm a little grumpy,
but I'll deal.
There's still the beauty of phones
and communication,
which I am ever grateful for.

Tomorrow is a new month,
a day closer to a point
when I can look and say,
"hey, it's a new me!"
(because these changes are gradual)

In celebration,
I woke up a little early
so I could box up some things
for my coming move
and then threw some things away.

I threw out a box of paper flowers,
still in the box
in which they arrived at my first dorm room,
as I'm cleaning my room,
and I'm also dusting
the corners of my heart.

Maybe I should start running again.

Maybe I should take to my heels
and pretend I'm not damaging my knees
and that I can outrun this stress
this sense of fear and anxiety.

Maybe it's just because I'm young.
Maybe it's just because
everything is changing,
the world turning upside down.

Some things stay the same.
My heart beats inside my chest.
The sun warms my skin.
I will keep those close
even as place and time
move about me.

She is my best friend,
my sister though our names are different,
and we can talk for hours.

We smile and laugh,
we share joy
and take away sorrows.

I wouldn't trade her
for jewels,
because then I'd lack
the sister to show them to
in giddy excitement

I had a whole weekend
of a built-in co-pilot,
someone to navigate
and change music
and hold my hand
and look at me when he thinks I couldn't see
I have stunning peripheral vision

and now I'm making my way out of Chicago.
Alone.
My passenger seats empty.

My hand empty.

I wrote them a poem,
this happy couple,
and then I let it run away.

I don't need to remember those words,
I just need to remember their smiles,
how brightly they shone before the altar.

I don't care how many stanzas it was,
just how many times they leaned together
to whisper happily,
how many times her fingers knit through his.

Their love is so much,
so bright,
it's filling my own heart to bursting.
Their joy is so great
A smile is painted on my own face.

Oh, let them be happy
for the rest of their days
with a contentment that settles in their bones.

The Healthy Griffindor

She feels like suspension,
specifically,
she feels like one foot on solid ground,
the other in midair.

She feels breathless and light,
like air readying to rush into lungs-
she feels like gravity ready to claim you.

She feels like life,
fear and exhilaration all in one,
uncertainty and surety tied together.

She feels like standing on a cliff,
one foot on solid ground,
the other reaching out into air.

The Words Given Back

I am running water,
a stream, a brook, a river,
all of it.
Slipping through
or around obstacles,
I am water.

A brook,
babbling noisily,
bright and cheery,
tripping merrily down rocks.

A river,
graceful and stately,
pressing ever on-wards
with slow, careful surety,
never losing ground always gaining.

A steam,
slender, lovely,
sparkling with summer sun,
peaceful.

I am running water,
because no matter which exact word
all are calming,
all bring peace,
all soothe souls with their simple presence,
even if they roar like rapids down a mountainside.

He gave me words back

He gave me words back,
and it may be the most considerate thing
anyone could have done for me that week.

Oh, my friends love me.
I know it with a calm surety.
they just love me in their ways,
which is honestly fantastic because
the world would be boring if it were all the same.

I hand out words a lot,
words strung together with care and precision
(or the precision of "shit I have 5 minutes to write this")
because I'm better with those,
at least when they're written.

I don't always get them back,
at least,
not in the ways I give them.

So the moments I get them,
they stick out.

Like when a little freshman
wrote me a silly poem
and I almost cried because
it was the first poem anyone wrote
for me about me.

When the cat that feels like fog
asked what I was,
what I felt like,
and I responded, "I dunno. People don't tell me back."
he looked me in the eyes and said,
"water."
(so forgive me,
but I'll be paraphrasing him later
to compliment myself)

When I handed my love music that made me think of him
(which isn't even my thing,
it's a way to love someone else gave me)
and now I'm bouncing in my chair
as he's burning "the first" set of music in return.

the cat handed me words first,
and I shall not forget that.

"The fog creeps in on little cat feet"

Il est comme un chat,
mais he feels like fog,
like the mist hanging in the air
wrapping around streetlamps.

He feels both dangerous
and calming,
shadowy but also
romantic like Paris in the rain,
where maybe it's not romance made for you
but it still soothes and eases the rough edges of your soul
to know someone somewhere is in love.

He feels like fog settled down around the cracks of you,
not a weight to bear
but a gentle pressure grounding your feet.

He feels like the smoke curling up from his cigarettes,
potentially deadly
but honestly,
who's got the time?

The Fallen Griffindor

She is fire,
bright and dangerous.

She could be a campfire,
warming friends,
gathering people about her
to share in laughter.

She could be a hearth-fire,
steady and dependable,
constantly burning
to provide and warm those she cares for.

Instead,
she raged, rages,
an inferno that scorched,
possessive
it sucked the air from lungs
until there was no one left to consume,
when she collapsed on herself,
dying embers
flickering with what she had been.

Those who cared tried to breathe life back into her,
to give her the air she longed for,
hoping we'd see again
the warming fire
that had brought so much comfort before.

Instead,
she blazed again,
so we ran,
rather than be burned again,
though it broke our hearts to save our lives.

The Bright Freshman II

He is an evergreen,
a fir tree,
roots reaching deep as he stretches to the sky.

He's spread his branches wide,
greenery reaching out
to take in all he can,
to protect all the friends he can.

He is an evergreen;
He will not change season to season,
only grow,
and grow stronger and wiser.
He will bend but not break;
His roots reach too deep to be ended by a fire.

The Bright Freshman

He feels like the horizon,
riding hard towards that line in the distance
always getting farther away
but with that spreading distance
the sense of freedom grows.

He feels like the sunset,
cresting over the mountains in the distance
that you think you can reach and know
in just one afternoon,
but there's always something more just beyond
the next ridge

My Introverted Slytherin

She feels like winter
settled over a mountainside,
the snow piled over evergreen boughs
that drag through the powder,
heavy with weight.

She feels like that hush,
that sense that all is quiet
but nothing in still;
everything is pulled taunt and waiting
waiting
waiting to strike with renewed vigor.

Smoke hangs in the air,
clouding the streets as if it were a battlefield,
yet it's just premature celebration,
a joyous explosion
of color and sound -
bright and wonderful
if a bit loud for puppies.

Tomorrow night,
when things are truly crazy,
maybe I'll climb up on the roof -
and try not to slice my foot open again -
so my gaze can stretch out for miles
and I can see fireworks until I basically fall asleep.

She still is wacky and wild,

with humorous thoughts

taking leaps the rest of us couldn't-

but she's more sure of herself,

settled,

in the way that three years in the Navy

will bring anyone.

There's also tint of sadness,

from time to time,

that comes from a funeral.

But I'll ply her with ice cream,

and we'll laugh about pigeon culture,

and maybe we can beat back the sadness

for another day,

His hand is in mine,
His presence is next to me-
I could shake for excitement
but I'm driving.

Just to be
in the same place as him
is enough.

One more sleep,
and I'll see him.

One more laying down of heads,
and then he'll be in my sight.

Once more unto dreams,
and then my dream will be reality.

One more night,
and then I'll hug him until my bones creak.

That they love to dance with me
never ceases to amaze me
and warm my heart.

I think them so fantastic
and wonderful
it seems crazy.

But I remember how great of a smile
with which I have been gifted
and how dancing
improves everyone's soul,
and maybe after reflection
it's not so great a mystery

One week.

Seven more days,
and I'll see him.

I can wait that long.

I can hold my breath

and

my

words

until I see his face
and can hold his hand
and let all the words of affection
i've been holding in
just rush out in one avalanche of feeling
because yeah sure
of course
we've called and texted and everything
but there's nothing can compare
to seeing his face.

I want to run out the door
and never come back-
I am tired and this leeches at my soul
even as bright people
pour sunlight back in
as we chat and I help improve their days.

I'm trying desperately to see the forest
for all these trees,
to remember the point and the reasons,
but the money for later
is hard to think of
when the job now
sucks away joy.

to worn out
to chase what i love
so i'll crawl home
and sleep,
and maybe when i wake
i'll have good news.
maybe.

I can see the dawn.
This is a rare occasion,
for I am not frequently up this early
and when I stay up this late
I rarely do so where there are windows
to watch the sun rise.

But here I am,
resetting a sleep schedule and catching up
on poems
and reading
and composing CDs for friends-
I did a lot of late night MP3 purchasing.

I'm also smiling,
because I have plans to see people I care about,
and I got to hear their voices.

I wonder sometimes,
why the world is so large
and we have to be separated so greatly.

I'm cleaning out a room,
clearing away the old
to temporarily house new,

when I see an old box in my closet.

the handwriting on it
brings a fond smile-

the paper flowers inside
hit me like bricks
and I put the box back for another day.

I have to bury this friendship
a little at a time,
even after these past two years.

It's too darn hot
and I can get little relief
other than by forsaking
a good night's rest
and consigning myself
either to faintly sweat under a fan
or curl up on an old couch
in the sweetly cold basement-

I miss snow.

Old friends can keep you
up late. Together you two
see a new day dawn.

Grabbing at new chances,
new paths forward,
with some hope and desire
to be anywhere else

It's strange to think
that one day I'll have a house
with shelves of movies I don't watch
and cds I stopped listening to,
and games no one in my house plays
except on rare occasions

There are still little things
littered about my room
that remind me
of the one I lost,
but there are two fewer
after today.

There are many wondrous things
placed carefully through my life
that remind me
of the one I love,
who is but a phone call
or a letter away

We're holding onto this moment
By the skin of our teeth
And claws extended
To keep these people here,
To stay
Even when we can't.

We've commenced;
We have degrees
And soon responsiblities-

And I'm on the couch
Where I've passed many a night
With old friends
And new alcohol,
Watching time slip through my fingers

They're happy-

Let me press every blessing I can
into their souls
as I hug them,
adorned in white and lace and a tux-

Let this couple smile for all their years to come.

My feet carry me across a stage-
I shake hands-
Paper is pressed into mine-
I smile as pictures are taken-

Relief and exhaustion in equal measure
flood into my bones-
as does trepidation
as suddenly the entire measure of my life
changes

Too many people,
too many cries for my attention-
Just STOP already.

I need sleep,
time for me
with no one else.
Please,
just leave me be.

But you can't,
can you?
I have to graduate,
and host family,
and attend a wedding,
and idiot younger friends are ignoring me.
So I can't just spend time reading,
sleeping, and packing
like I think I need.

So I'll press on.
I always do,
slipping around obstacles
like a particularly determined stream.
I'll sleep when I'm dead.

I hum with joy;
how can I not?
He's here,
with strong arms
and kind hands-
ah,
I shall miss him,
his unique feel-
I have not written him enough poems.
I don't know if my pen
will ever pour out enough.

I have traded sugar for sleep
(not entirely my fault)
and now the world is bright again.
Step by step
I make my way to the finish line.
Perhaps a little more ragged than I would have liked

Grabbing at straws,
skittering like a deer on ice,
as the weight of all there is left to do
rises up like an overwhelming wave-

She left me,
and I'm broken,
because she tells it the other way around.

It stabs like fire
because I hate to carry guilt not mine
but there she stands above me with a shovel
ready to drop it all on me-

but I won't give her
the satisfaction of screaming.

It's cold,
but I don't feel it-
I'm in your arms.
And you are warm,
a summer day
on this spring one doing its best
to pretend its fall.

I will happily while away hours with you-
though maybe with less sticks poking
and leaves caught in hair-
for you're so wonderful.

Exams will end-
that means no papers-
that means more hours for you.

Relaxing,
easing,
the only gift that can be given
when your birthday comes
in the middle of Dead Week
as finals loom-
but that's all you'd ask for anyway,
reclining with those you care about

Fingers curled around wrists-
the flutter of a pulse under skin-
a hitch of breath-
the turn of a page-
a soft kiss pressed to skin unsuspecting
eyes suddenly losing focus-
a heart pounding-
the mind pulling itself back together-
a smile growing-

I am going to bottle this moment away,
and save it,
like I've tried to do with so many.

How I couldn't look-
my heart would have practically
jumped through my chest
having suddenly grown three sizes too big-

I'm finding myself
frequently blind from the brilliance of it all
when I'm around him,
more and more.

My other senses are just so much better
at taking him in
without being overwhelmed.

Packing up all of my things-
well just the essentials and favorites-
piece by piece,
and shifting them
away from the room
I've slept in for almost two years
for somewhere
without nostalgia
but also without a new cloud of doom.

Tension is easing from my body-
drip by drip
like the coffee my father makes in the morning-
slowly then all at once-

Am I still intoxicated?
Yesterday
was entirely
too much day
and perhaps I responded
less than maturely
but it was so nice
breathing in friendship
and drinking down courage.

I don't even feel bad,
just tired and a little dehydrated,
but that's normal.
A smile tugs at my mouth
constantly,
and I have so much energy.

I wish I got this high
from doing homework.

Tension grips tight,
fear and anxiety
that I have to beat back-

I needed help for it today,
and I have to remember
that it's okay.
But I still hate it.

But soon,
I'll be one step closer,
almost done
having learned all the French
this place can teach me.

Then I'll turn my eyes,
twist my tongue,
bend my eyes to Russian
or some other language
"just" for fun,
"just" to satisfy the yawning desire
to gather up languages and words
and scatter them out again,
much as I do with stories.

The plays go on,
I sit in half-darkness,
the headset chatter in one ear,
happiness in my heart,
wishing I could stay here longer,
yet also excited for the freedom
from the theater that is
just one short week away.

I'm forgetting the full stops
at the end of my poems-
but I think it's because
they are so little,
so off-the-cuff right now,
and so full of joy
that I don't want to end

I hope I did enough
that he knew he's loved,
and thought special-
so that he knows how wonderful it is
to simply sit in his company

I have no jokes today-
I'm not much of a prankster-
only joy.
Just smiles
and poems kept tucked away
for ears they are whispered into

I'm sick and this sucks

Sighing back to work,
feeling a little like a let down,
but it's not my fault-
my responsibility
but not my fault.

My lungs are fighting for air
because of some dumb illness
lingering around me
like an over-stayed guest.
Remind me to buy orange juice.

I'll survive. I hope.
I'm at least taking better care
of myself than my littler friend
who has it worse.
Modern medicine is amazing.

Easter Vigil

It's dark in the basilica.
The lights are all off
(except for the small ones
by the emergency exit
because this is both a place of prayer
and a museum)

when suddenly a fire roars to life-
maybe I'm overdramatizing that
but candles slowly make their way
cutting through the darkness

until this old and gorgeous church
is lit by the candles of the faithful

my friend succumbs to sickness during the service,
and I keep her down in the pew,
rubbing circles into her back to ease her lungs
while my lips whisper old french prayers

The Light of the World returns,
no matter what He rises.
The basilica is bright and beautiful
to reflect His Glory

even in a pew
keeping an ill friend
this side of conscious,
worship of the Divine is still possible

Joyeux Paques!

I watched a woman die
as I leaned out a 9th story window.

It was a busy affair-
and the news won't tell me much more than
"she's in critical condition"-
but the paramedics did CPR.

I watched them,
the men and women from the ambulance,
one at her side
the other at her head,
as they forced her heart to beat
and her lungs to take in air.

About 30% of CPR patients live.
This time they also had to use the AED.

I watched for several minutes,
useful only to pray,
as they placed the woman onto a backboard
and carried her into the ambulance,
doing CPR the entire time,
ceaseless,
unending,
changing the medics as necessary.

I watched them drive away,
the streets still blocked off,
and still,
I could only pray
for the woman I watched die.

Drove and drove,
and here I am,
sitting in a different country
tired but happy
to see new spaces
and breath in new air,
with friends at my side.

I spent my afternoon
cleaning and then breathing-
relaxing?
reclining?

being?

I spent it happy,
whatever verb it is I'm missing.

I spent it
breathing in the company
of people I like,
of a person I love,
and what could have been a better start
to an extra-long vacation?

Limping towards break,
basically,
counting down days,
ready to give up
but not giving in,
for soon it will be
freedom

There is a man
filling my life
with color and joy,
with flowers-
I never knew
I could smile so wide
so often
yet here he is,
proving me wrong
as a grin stretches
with the effort to express
just how much
I want to explode with joy.

Rain is falling,
but where it once fell
on a panicked junior
who didn't know what
she was going to do

it now falls on a content
senior who maybe doesn't
have all of life figured out
but she's accepted that's okay.

I did it.

One last time.

My dance is on the stage,
my art,
my creation
realized through the aid
of so many,
but it's mine,
and people like it-

It feels like they like me.

I'm not saying artists need validation,
but we totally need validation.

It's the last time,
probably,
that I'll pick up
the mantle of choreographer.

I am so glad the premier went well.
Two more performances to go.

Music,
Played live,
Bright and joyous-
Oh he's smiling and nodding-
To the delight of all.

Then dancing,
Happy and light,
Until feet and shoes are worn,
But you're in someone's arms
So exhaustion doesn't matter.

Then magic,
Colored ball gowns
And bright smiles
In a retelling of a timeless story
With kisses from friends
And the warmth of blankets.

Rage-

rattling around in my chest
like the claws of a tiger
across the bars of a cage-

hemmed in by care
and non-confrontational desires,

as a friend kills another by inches,
wounding me the same way
only because I stepped in between them,
stronger than the little one,
older,
to shout "bas,"
to declare "enough"
with the sharp hand
and power of a Bollywood father
when a vampire's fangs
sink too close to the heart.

I will not destroy her.
I can't,
intentionally.

But bit by bit,
I can dole out warnings,
advice,
demands that she mend-
and if all else fails,
I will grab the little one
but the scruff of his neck
and drag him out from underneath
her downward trajectory.

The thick clouds,
In reflecting the lights,
Have made dusk of late night.
There is a singular wild beauty
To the hush that is winter,
Nature holding its breath,
Waiting to spring to life.
It's quiet
But not calm,
Humming with the tension
Of paused growth
Ready to rage
The minute the weight of cold and wet
Melts to give way
To the warmth of summer sun.

Tearing down the last stage,
the last time
I spent as a board op
in college,
painting over memories
that cling to more than just the wings.

I adore metaphors-
They help me understand
The world and people-
And I have a beautiful one for you:

Being with you,
near you,
leaning on your shoulder
or cording my fingers through your hair,
it's all so wonderful.

It's sitting on a smooth rock,
reclining and relaxing,
that lies next to an old river
that's now a brook
murmuring quietly
as it winks down the mountain.
The trees have grown tall and strong-
Green leaves stretching wide-
so the sunlight dapples the earth.
The rock is warm from the sun,
and one could almost sleep,
made to feel safe
by the lullaby of the brook
and the rustling wind,
but everything is too beautiful
to miss.

My Best Friend

She is my campfire-
fiery of course-
but so much more.

She's the wildness of a flame,
flickering and flashing-
If you treat her right
and feed her well,
she grows strong and healthy-
Treat her poorly
and she'd wither away
or explode into an uncontrollable inferno.

She is the large campfire,
gathering a large crowd
laughing and drinking,
cooking amazing food-
or the little one,
with only a few close friends,
with smores
and wonderful conversation.

Concern,
I feel it probing
at the edges of my thoughts-
concern for me by me,
that I'm hardly sleeping,
struggling to find the motivation
to complete assignments
as I have other work to do-
theater work,
job work,
and relationships to build-
I've checked out of school,
and I think I need a weekend
to check back in.
So with the play
that means I have to survive
two more weeks
and then I can reset

All day
spent on stage,
in blacks,
and then I crawled home
to friends,
food,
and, eventually, you.

Weight,
pressing down,
almost crushing,
saying go faster
while your spine
feels like boulders
cracking across each other
and smashing into you and-

stop.

breathe.

take in air.
take in friends.

now shake out the tension.
refocus.
now put your shoulder to the grindstone
and go

It's so easy
for me to slip back
into the old habits
and the simple easiness
that is the stress of theater.

The first bouquet
Ever purchased for me
Out of romantic affection
Sit prominently in my house,
Primarily for my own enjoyment.

I will rest my eyes
On the rosy carnations
And smile with joy.

Two tracks of footprints
Meet in an empty parking lot
Covered with snow.
They circle each other,
A mess of two girls
Pacing
To keep themselves warm
As they talk of lacy things
And sushi.
The prints retreat,
Still pointed at the other,
Until distance and cold grow too much
And they twist around
To trace the way home.

Une Promesse à mon feu

Je te promets
    de ne jamais écrire
         et publier
         des poèmes quand
         je suis fâché
         à toi
    de protéger
         tes details personnels-
    de partager seulement ta beauté
    de te donner des mots-
         des mots qui sont les tiens -
         seulement à toi
         sauf quand j'ai ton permission

Tu es si beau,
si gentil,
si précieux,
et je veut te respecter.

J'ai beaucoup des mots
qui me plaident,
qui crient,
de voler à toi,
de chanter dans ton voix,
de danser dans tes yeux-

Ils deja commencent de m'échapper.
Donne-moi le temps d'être courageuse,
s'il te plaît,
de me souvenir que je peut te les donner,
et ils seront tous être les tiens.

A thimble,
a small little thing,
the first one
treasured
no matter its quality
for its the first
even if it unlocks
a waterfall of others-

It seems a new era
has dawned
for my writing -
a time of consideration
even for the simple practice poems

"I want to dance
at the tips of your fingers,
like a cigarette,"
entwining in and out
like a shadow or scarf -
falling and rising
with your own rhythm -
and once I've learned your dance,
I'll take your hand
and teach you mine.

Dance pushes itself
out of my bones
as much as the ink
that is my blood
threatens to break through
my all-too-mortal skin

Searching for words
to put together
in order
but not wanting to,
because this is not just mine,
and it is a fledgling
I refuse to pinion
with talking too much.
Silence isn't awkward,
but comfortable,
a mon avis anyway

Encircled,
defended,
side pressed to side,
grounded
in a moment of
joy

Keep calling me.
Please.
Don't let this song fade
When depart school.
I want it to be real;
I want it to be true.
I want something
As healthy as this parish
To keep me company,
To draw me forward,
So that I know it is You.
Please keep singing,
Even though I will not
Change my key this spring.

There are stars in the sky
begging to be named
and joy bubbling up out of me
that I can't quite get the right words
to express when I want them.

Oh me,
You'll learn to say
what you think
not just write it
soon enough.

For if good things can come
to a girl who shouts into the void
not expecting answers or change,
how much better will your life be
when you voice your thoughts?

i am drunk and angry please disregard

This is a poem by a girl
Who is fucking angry and tipsy
So please disregard.

But I don't believe you,
Ami,
When you talk of being my friend.

I've told you how I work.
I have told you
How to show you care
But you don't.

You reply,
When I text.
I ask you to events,
And you reject them
With no offer of later time,
So I'm slowly ceasing to ask as I told you I would.

Why won't you give me your time?
As a friend, dammit,
Not some half-flirty I-don't-know.

I love Narcissa,
Ace,
Perfect Cinnamon Roll
Because they offer me their time
And accept the time
I offer them.
I've even got the Great Whale King
Into giving me time
When I'm happy
Not just when in crisis.

Stop being a stormy-weather friend.
Please.
I hate it.
I hate that I care so much
Yet you knock me down
Again and again,
And that I am too much a coward
To say this to your face.

And I also don't want
To put in the effort
To gain the courage,
Because a little voice tells me
That despite my best efforts
I will lose you within a few years of graduation
So why even bother?

This wasn't how my last semester was supposed to start.

I did get some good times -
one night with new friends drinking
and the next
with old friends I hardly fit now
watching a fantastic movie -
and I have amazing classes.

But should I be so done so soon?
Ready to throw out everything
and just curl up in a ball alone?
I should've enjoyed things
for at least a little longer,
right?

Rest,
Mon petit,
(That's French for my little one)
You are safe here.
I have arms and allies enough
To fight your battles if you so wish,
And I lack hesitations
When I go to war for those that are mine.
"If love is what you need,
A soldier I will be,"
A sister with a shotgun
And fire in her eyes.

Victorious,
I playing either a dragon
or a serpent,
pressing buttons in a whirl
and in a rage,
laughing
with success and joy-
and I will return,
again and again
to this arena
in order to do battle.

Fire burns-
I always forget.
Like how air cannot help
to wander
and water drowns-
how earth cracks.

Oh Fire, (published retroactively due to sitting on it so as to not be writing mad and then everything changed when the Fire asked me out so....)

First,
I am a coward-

Well not so much a coward
as one shy,
with the occasional bout
of crippling social anxiety,
with the fear of losing more dear friends,
and a talent for written words
not spoken ones
which really fucks me over
when a beautiful soul
breaks down in my kitchen
but I digress.

Second,
I'm sorry.
I feel like I messed up.
I feel like this is a mistake
but I actually did this once before
(And it sort of worked?
but this blog has been in the past
therapy for me that's free
and I can't cut myself off from this
even to save my pride)
so here goes me being unsubtle.

You're reading this.
I know you are because you talk of spoilers.
Maybe there's been a niggling feeling
you already have a poem
and you've been in denial.
Of course,
you don't do subtle
which is why you're now in my phone
as Enjolras
(Also because I'm a dark-haired drinker but anyway)

I was okay.
I was finally okay.
Then I get a Christmas card
that alongside beautiful encouragment
from a dear friend is:
"I'm terribly fond of you"
What the actual fuck, dude?
You don't send that to friends!
I'm not "fond" of Klicker or Gibbs
I'm fond of you but that's a whole other shot of burbon

A whole semester of
"Out of sight; out of mind,"
down the fucking drain.

augh,
That's why I need your friendship.
I could never say that to you directly-
cursing around you feels wrong,
And I need to clean up my act-
And you inspire me to be better-
the best me that there is-
with just your friendship,
so really that's all I need.

My people need me now.
A lot.
So I don't have time
for your half-flirting.
I wanted another week,
but drama queens intervened,
took me to the end of my rope
before I could say,
"Hey,
What exactly did you mean by,
'I missed dancing with you...
I missed you in general'?"

I'll be okay eventually I know.
You ought to pride yourself.
You've been a fire
I did not consciously start
and could not put out
since you offered me your handkerchief
on a sunny Sunday evening
when you saw me crying.
I have always prided myself
for creating my affections
as needed,
yet you are a rare and stubborn exception.

I've probably lost you now with this.
which sucks.

I don't know if I'll be able
to talk to you about
anything
remotely close to my soul for a while.
A dear friend
unintentionally toyed with my emotions
for the better part of a month-
I don't know how quickly I'll spring back
even if I can paint my face
to seem as if I have.
I won't be able to talk,
because this will linger for a while,
begging to be discussed,
but then the yawning chasm
of self-loathing will open up
and I'll want to cry
so my energies for speaking rationally and calmly
will be quickly diverted to the
Do Not Cry You Pathetic Wastrel Division
and the quality of conversation will decrease.

You weren't so dear a friend
the last time I misread you,
and you didn't tell me anything
I hadn't already figured out
and gotten over
that Saturday night on my porch.
(Actually the "you're a dear friend"
was a surprise,
again because I value time
and you hadn't offered me any
in two weeks.)

I'm sorry I can't say this
to your face.
Please don't bring this up.
I cannot bear to be weak
in the presence of all but a few,
a phone call is different
you can't see the tears
so all you're likely to get
is a neutral face,
blinking twice before a smile twitches to life,
and a sincere murmur
that everything is fine.

I will tear her to shreds -
my teeth and claws are sharp
with righteous rage,
but I hold them back
because its wise,
because the little brother
I have claimed
doesn't want me to.

I will still rage,
but channel it well,
turning it to doings
and care,
plying him with food and sweets-

but sharping daggers for anyone else
who might try to hurt him

Come to me,
precious one,
who smiles so kindly,
who excitedly is.

Sit in my kitchen,
and drink my tea,
laugh,
sing,
you are more
than welcome here.

You are a friend
I gladly chase
for you have so shortly
won me over.
Be happy here.
Be safe here.

I like my practical side,
that looks at the time I have left
in the places I reside,
and tells me not to worry.

I hate the desperate side,
that claws at my heart
and tells me
I'll never be loved
if I'm not now,
even though my mother
was far older than me when she met my father-

but I'm the only single one
in my house,
so I'm sitting alone with a beer
while twin sets of laughter echo down the stairs,
and it hurts
but where else can I go?
To flee is to take refuge in escapism,
which never lasts long.

So I take a swig of my beer
and write a dumb poem,
and wish I had better things to write
since I shared this with friends.

I want someone to lean on,
and not fear I am weighing them down
for they lean on me, too,
using physics to hold up a world.
I'm just so tired
of friends who forget me.
Maybe there's something
deeply wrong with me
and I just have to find out
what it is,
and fix it,
and then this annoying need,
this annoying sadness,
will go away.

Warm,
surrounded by friends,
practically covered with them,
as we laugh,
we smile,
and I feel happy
content
and wish for these moments
to stretch out
and multiply

He's new,
and I like him,
how he smiles and dances,
how he smiles at me
and pulls better dance from my bones-
to stay here,
to discuss Plato with him
and dance some more,
would be a dream
I can't afford to treat myself to

My heart is pounding,
racing,
I'm freaking the fuck out
because I've just turned in
my first application
for being an adult
for an after-college job
and it's in France
of all places
because if I've got to go leave a trail of broken hearts
best to do it overseas
and I'm both terrified
and excited.

Zuko is ever so grateful for Toph’s lessons on the cold bus ride -
he’s been training firebending with her;
picking up where Uncle left off
in adding earthbending techniques to his bending -
because when the bus suddenly slams to a stop
he remains standing, centering himself in his piece of floor,
letting gravity take him just far enough
into the bend of his knees
and the grip of his arm on the pole he stands firm –
not the the brunette next to him,
who reeks of waterbender
as she tries to react against inertia,
losing instead and crashing into Zuko,
her hands clutching at his shoulders even as she’s thrown into him -
but he can’t be mad when she looks up at him
with embarrassed eyes in a blue he never could have imagined -
she’d outshine any sapphire, any fire opal -
her mouth drops open and he can imagine the stammering apology
so he cuts her off with a smile,
wide and genuine and real,
and whispers a corny line with just enough self-awareness
she smiles back and laughs –
and months later when they’ve gotten into trouble again -
serves him right for loving a girl that befriended Aang
rather than moon after the Avatar -
he’s ever so grateful for Toph’s lessons
because the men chasing Katara expect fire to come from his fists,
not sprout from the ground after an earthbending-style kick -
“Alright, Sparky!” -
then he has his hand in hers -
“You don’t have to hold my hand when we run, Zuko!” -
and thinks about the kisses he’ll steal later on the bus ride home together



(hahahahahahahahahahha I wrote a poem that's a Zutara fanfic someone kill me now or pay me)

I am just
weary

a morning at the dentist
a paycheck a week late
overdrawn because of the clerk's mistake with my mother's account
sore everything
half-functioning laptop
a cough that won't leave
a letter i refuse to look at

things to do that i can't do
won't do
because to do so
invites anxiety
depression?
worry
perfectionism
so i collapse to cope
and call myself a failure

fighting's better
fighting fixes things
and improves my mood and outlook

but i'm just so damn weary

All the friends around me,
young and aflame,
and yet it with my mother
I am most comfortable un-sober

SEE YOU IN LESS THAN A WEEK

I send to every friend that texts me,
drowning out the invading loneliness
with volume
because I have this awkward week -
poor and an "only child" -
where my sister and high school friends
have returned to college
but my classes are a week later.

and my best friend,
my sister in everything but birth,
she aches and I cannot heal,
she grieves but I can only say,
"I know; I'm sorry; I love you."

it's not enough,
not for me anyway,
so I'll throw things halfheartedly at my powerlessness,
as I pace alone,
grieving for a grandmother not mine,
who's gone home,
but left someone who needed her.

My only real resolution
was to stop writing poems to ex's

I got that down.

I think I left the rest of my improvement
up to myself and God
because the things that need fixing
aren't simple enough
to write down on a slip of paper
and brag about upholding

I will ache for a while

but I'm reading more!

The song that carried me
when people left
when i left people
has been dethroned.

For three laptops,
over six years,
it has been the song
most played
that I own,
the collection of piano notes
and soaring contratenor
in a bittersweet melody
has finally been overtaken,
not by the Irish boys I once thought of,
but swinging,
bold,
joyous music
I never imagined.

I wonder if I am happier,
that I listen to happy music
in this chapter of life.


(The dethroned: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqUdiBaTSNg
The reigning: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t7ojM_TdwuI
The could-have-been: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuorM2gu4Ps)

365 days of failure,

of mistakes,

of "oh my -- I can't believe I just --

augh"

365 days of feeling awful

of mistake after mistake-

365 days of amazing,
of little blessings,
of "oh my I didn't realize
that meant so much to you"
365 of doing right,
of greatness.

the days blur together
as we grow older
and have more to remember.
single moments are lost
leaving only an impression,
positive or negative.

I have let the latter overpower,
overwhelm,
control me.
It's not much of a resolution,
not when I know I'll fail.
But I'll suit up for battle anyway,
determined to see more good
this year
than the last.

Happy New Year~