For a year in the making,

i dreamt your face,
when the harsh heat would get to my head at night.
we were so longing,
yet so simultaneously unavailable.
the rare exchange of weightless words kept us hanging on,
hoping on one day to spark a fire.

i recognized your face,
when the leaves had fallen beneath our nervous toes.
the innocence still existing,
lingering somewhere between our beating chests.
we tangled ourselves up in the exact knots we'd been waiting to tie.

i needed your face,
when the once lit fountain had frozen still.
we waited, we fought the time and distance.
but before envy green and piercing blue eyes met,
we began to thaw.
the insecurities leaked all over the empty pages and blank canvases.

i saw your face,
when the flowers bloomed as revealing as your hushed tones.
no words that escaped my gaping mouth could ever form forgiveness.
your sun was no shelter,
and no longer will it shine again on my rain drenched face.

another four seasons gone,
but one lessons been learned,
etched forever into my skin:
seeing really is believing.

For old faces making a new impact,

i've found you shattered on the ground,
heart beating in tune with mine.
impatient, detached, pondering.
you've showed me light at the end of the tunnel,
the tunnel of twirling secrets, and unkempt actions.
this may be an ugly road,
but i'm enduring it no longer alone.
a new breeze under my shaky steps,
a fresh push on my back.
support you i will,
as you follow the same path as i.
i just found a friend in one of those lies,
and truth in that friend.

For old habits taking a second chance,

April Eleventh.

It's 10:46 am and I've gotten back into coffee.
Fourth cup this week for the first time in months.
I'm not used to the jitters yet,
So I've got a latte stained hand and the table is dripping.
It's raining pretty hard,
Everyone's got busy schedueles,
But I don't worry.
The books are my friends,
The pens are the weapons in my shaky hands,
Fighting the blank pages.
I might be returning to old habits,
But I think its too early to tell.
My heads getting clogged,
With an unjustified reason.
Mix the caffeine,
Allergies,
Too little zoloft,
And I've got the sinus pressure of a writer getting through the block.
I'm chiseling it off,
Piece
By
Piece.
With rain; my favorite of all weather,
My reconnection with coffee,
My anticipation of the next slip to be saved by this very notebook,
and potentially my tiny Ativan,
I'm on my way to the core.

For my hypomania,

Voices resound from each side,
The quiet begins to overwhelm.

I.
Her ear is pressed to the crack between door and frame:
His hand slowly glides off the handle, back turned.

She waits for noise
He waits for silence.

Someone might be waiting to crawl towards the hole in his chest;
Someone might just want to pass through her.

Push and pull;
A hand grabs the doorknob
as the other jerks it back into their pocket.

II.
Maybe they could push open the heavy hearted door at the exact same moment,
but nothing will be on either side,
nothing ever is.
And if so, what purpose do
locks
and empty doorways,
and windows
serve?

III.
We put up walls,
since the idea of space in entirely too infinite.
We need to know boundaries,
need to feel protected,
which overrules our need to wander outside the lines.

If we know what is on the other side of our walls,
Why do we close up every inch of what we can see straight through?

IV.
She knows he's there, but not for long:
He knows she's not leaving.
What meaning can they infer from that,
From a bursting
Bleeding
Barely beating
Fragmented heart?

The wall can be three miles thick,
But the door will always be torn down by one simple breath.

V.
She inhales:
He exhales.

For the weathers control on us,

Stale branches stay still, glued to the air as the translucent breeze slips between the month old leaves.
The early march sun beats down so gently onto the melting snow piles.
Some touched by innocent animal footprints,
Some untouched, looking as pristine as they fell days before this.
The suns reflection off the white and soggy earth forces eyelids shut.
Something about the slightly warming breeze gives hope,
That a new season is just beneath the heaps of slush and frozen rose pedals.
It’s coming out;
Through the peaking patches of green and dripping lawn furniture.
We can almost taste the new air,
Brushing against our uncovered arms,
Giving us a chill that no longer sinks deep within.
It lingers ever so sweetly on our skin that has been thickening these past years,
Awaiting to peel away in the months to come.
A winter so cold calls out for a spring so warm.
And underneath these snowflakes
We reside;
Waiting for tomorrow’s morning to heat through these layers we’ve collected
Stripping us bare
Because isn’t that what yesterday is here for?
You can’t open your eyes to the sky when they’ve been closed to the ground.
We change with the seasons, and that’s the only constant that never falls out of line;
Because the clocks still tick,
The breeze still blows,
The sky still sweats,
You’re still you,
And I,
Still me.

For me,

i'm so proud to admit this to myself.
and i honestly don't care anymore about how everything turns out,
which ways i fall,
whether it be up or down.
because despite the quandary i've placed myself in,
i know one thing is still true.
and i'll stick to that feeling until the day it's last light flickers off.
i've watched my walls crumble down all due to my lack of strength to keep them in place.
because this one thing,
this constant feeling,
has not slipped out of line.
not once yet, after all these storms have knocked me over.
i won't let this fade away from my sight,
because the stars are still in my skies at night,
as are the clouds in my days.
i'd embrace this weakness with my head held high if i knew the reaction i expect would be the one i'd recieve.

For the one hundred and thirthieth day,

could you have ever guessed this,
that you'd be here, i'd be there,
yet we would be apart?
what's left of what we were is hidden by what we are.
these predicaments tied too many knots in our string,
we are so distant, so far.
you're parallel to the place i reside.
we've transitioned:
from the autumn skies that bred warmer fingertips,
to the brisk winter air that set our steps in a standstill;
transformed.
into the two people we never knew could be found.
they've surfaced from under our nerves,
from behind the doors we kept locked,
even from beneath our facades.
because somewhere along all these days of waking up to the sun,
and falling asleep to words never spoken,
something slipped;
like the cloth on a perfectly set table.
nothing shattered,
everything stayed intact,
yet the backbone was gone,
and all we are left with are pieces that will always be missing something.
but will that something always be missed?
can we make up for the clouds we didn't see fly by?
can we find more snowflakes to watch fall from the sky?
maybe not,
because maybe i've wronged us, this, you, and i
in ways that no glue can bring back together.
i have mistaken myself to be someone i believed had left and wouldn't return.
i've become more displaced than this poem could ever be.
confusion has never been so revealing,
never made such sense.
the butterflies are caught in my throat,
the words sit in my gut.
but i'll swallow the thoughts i've been choking on,
and spit them out to you.
i've lost.
i've lost this battle,
but mostly you.
and in essence, i've lost myself.
because you have opened the doors i didn't possess keys to.
because you have given me new eyes to see the world through.
but i've never reciprocated that,
and i'm here to let you know,
that i now know it.
i now see it.
i've never been there for you,
i've never been all that i ever aspired to be, for you.
so take away another three points,
and i've lost,
in the worst way possible.
i've lost,
and i never saw this coming.