A Close Reading

A Close Reading

Our love story was buried in someone else’s

Of men on cold winter nights

Of poems published and words that stayed in their boxes

A series of unintentions

My art hovered in the air like sadness

Begging for the end of July

And instead, the beginning of you

I saw you,

In people, in words, in foreign bedrooms

In the fear, in the excitement, the thrill of it all

In the secret and in the story

In the extended film scene that was ours

Because it explained us better than we could explain ourselves

I travel backwards in time with you

To last week, last month, last lifecycle

I rewind 23 years through ripped t-shirts and old photographs

Of 80s haircuts, 90s music, and girlfriends past

And suddenly I become something I have never even seen or heard of

Experience beyond body, being beyond self

When you follow me out at the end of the night

And wonder if I will return home with you

I think of the cobblestoned streets tucked away in old Philadelphia

How I got here

How your hands feel on the layers of my skin

How long it will be before you hold me again

And whether the streetlamps will stay awake long enough

To witness us in the morning

The Beauty of Distance

When I first met you, you were swimming. Your body was almost entirely concealed by the blue-green glistening of the lake at twilight. I sat at the dock, your quiet observer, and watched you each time you emerged from beneath the horizon. I looked down at where my feet should have been, engulfed by the same sharply cold water, and turned a half smile at the thought that this substance alone is what connects us. We did not need to speak a word, or even acknowledge the other's existence. Still we were one; joined by our own desires for solitude, for escape. My eyes were transfixed, mesmerized by sight of your hands smoothing over your long wet hair as silver drops scattered off of you, back to their origins. The waves traced your figure and urged me to rise up from the shore and go to you, yet, as to not disturb our symbiosis, I remained in my place. I watched the setting sun bathe you in red and orange hues as you continued to make laps and as eveningtime chills began to transplant upon my skin. You displayed a silent determination, propelling yourself further and further, no clear destination in sight. I yearned to join you, to achieve the same private freedom through simple yet concentrated movement. I did not know how. I simply sat there soaking you in and being grateful for the encounter yet to come.

Fast Talker, Sleep Walker, and What a Nice Little Girl You Are

Fast Talker, Sleep Walker, and What a Nice Little Girl You are

Unplug, she says
Waiting in the wings devoutly
As whispers hover over her thin layer of skin
She walks a tightrope
Smashes lightbulbs with tiny fists
And watches them bleed in clever drops
Sleep is her number one enemy
Or best friend, she can't decide
A numbing ride had brought her here
To a false awakening
A pretend spring
And where she thought she would blossom, she fell
Tumbled beyond the reach of any arm or mind
She lays in silence
For silence knows her, sees her
But has never graced her with its presence
And so she is halved
With only pieces of her face visible in daylight
Others shattered, torn, or taken
Buried in bus terminals and stale bars
She peddles pounds of dignity from one side of the city to the other
Never trusting what she can come home to
And what will be washed away before she returns