reason

for finding my voice

I search for it

in the quiet

lull

of the day

of the day to day

of the numb that comes

when you’re spinning

your wheels

your wheels

that you spin

while you wait

for your real life

to start

And I find my voice

and find

this is

real life

and you are

an arm’s length

before me,

always

in my mind’s eye

always out of reach.

I miss the way it

felt

when I could feel

with you.

are a vibrant confetti;

a party

is raging

against the asphalt

and i am wondering

if you’ve seen

them,

those leaves.

i imagine

finding you

out here

(where you are not, i know)

and i imagine your hands

on my face

i imagine that relief, that redemption, that grace of safe-

that fear, that catch in my breath, that distance i can’t resolve, that question i have about that break – is it far too broken now?

this daydream goes on

amidst the embers

the orange and burgundy

and bright red and yellow

there is so much future in the past,

i keep questioning

what i was supposed to learn

along the way

about this

your hands are no where near

this warmth

that burns for you

so it keeps catching

the wrong things on fire

burning little angry holes into perfectly good passerbys

smoldering on my skin,

darkening with smoke the air around me,

dusting ash along the path i can’t figure out how to stray from

(it has yet

to die out).

There’s always time

later

for all the things that don’t matter

There’s always time

now

There’s always time

for kissing your daughter,

and for one more game of Candyland.

There’s always time for

drinking wine,

and dancing,

for undressing slowly, and

falling into bed with lovers.

There’s always time for

wrapping your arms around

your father,

for laughing with your mother,

for calling your sister back.

There’s always time to

play fetch with your dog,

to rub his belly,

give him a treat.

There’s always time to stay up too late,

and miss a few days of work or school.

There’s always time to

take communion,

to be too loud,

to watch the sky.

There’s always time

to read a novel,

play the piano,

sing in the car,

meet friends for dinner.

There’s always time to write,

paint,

create.

There’s always time to learn,

change,

get worked up,

love,

let go.

There’s always time

later

for all the rest

and if there’s not -

oh well.

the first one, I thought to dismiss

but the last one, I can not forget

(it is the one in which I let you go)

In the dream, I held on

until your very last finger slipped through my hand,

you were not even facing me anymore

and I know that’s the way it should be

when you’re letting go,

when you’re moving on

(I just hoped against hope, you know?

but that’s not really what I wanted to tell you)

I wanted to extend my hand

in giving you my best

to all you have before you

That is what I’ve always wanted

that’s what love wants, they say

This is a day

too hard to take,

so I won’t take it

I will leave it

where it is.

It was just a dream.

(It was just a dream)

A cushion against the harshness I’m bound to walk into when I leave you

I didn’t want any of this

What I wanted was so simple it hurts

But I know, I know

there’s something about this road

I just, fall so often, into darkness, against sharpness

I just

I’m just

so glad for a softness I can carry

like a girl

With hope and trust and daydreams (of lovers and love)

I can’t talk about this, about what it’s like here

it’s probably best right now,

Let’s just,

please keep saying

“soon,  again”

that’s a song I can

pass time with.

this novel

that spans across the breadth of a lifetime

that only pens a few pages at a time

that leaves me hanging on every word

And all the in between,

all the life that happens when this is not being written

all the rest

seems to pale

seems unreal

I linger over the pages, re-reading all the moments

gathered up here

and I sometimes lay it down

and look around

and grasp

and guess

and wonder

I want the words to spin themselves more quickly across us

I want

I want

This is a novel

a story

we are ink on a page

Original: the loss

that I had never known

at the hands of a man.

I am so grateful you exist,

and for the reprieve I feel

connected

to you

and for knowing what it is

to feel

(like everything matters,

like everything’s okay,

like I am actually alive)