I’d like to think
in a world of random chaos
that the things we do
matter
of all the meaningless
events we have put meaning
stars, moon phases, planet rotation
know that
the very act
of getting out of bed
pulling up the sheets
is out of cosmic love
for every single iteration
of us
that I can feel you
through dimensions
and I hope
you feel
the birth and death
of universes
all to create the right parameters
to get back to you
infinitely
Fibers, finding that
which, in flow,
can never be touched
like buried bodies
impregnable images of
adolescence boiling
beneath the surface,
in flex, he becomes stern,
unwavering against the
lapping lethargy
in flow, he is sedimentary—
sand above and below—
surrounding your senses
A pair of hidden hearts
meeting hide to hide
lay in the undercurrent,
find a fixation in flex and flow
It’s easy to forget about the bruise
Because it’s not one I like to press
Some things only color over internally
They get caught in a case of mistaken identity with a fracture
A before and an after
While I keep watch from empty doorframes
and wait for newly descended shadows to reveal their familiar shapes
It’s disappointingly simple:
I don’t want you to go without me
and I wish that it didn’t have to be said
So please listen
It’s pressing
I don’t want to be left behind
It’s nights like these
you on your corner of the couch,
me on mine…
with toes touching
Like always–
A couple of kids
tucked in between us
As we re-watch
Labyrinth for the 50-eleventh time
breaking it down,
for the next kid in line…
If we’d arrived
from any different planes of existence
From living rooms with both parents
Who weren’t too tired
To give a damn
We might not be here.
And You
We
Were worth it all.
today I can’t do what I want
everyday is a new day to fail
and feel and my trembles turn to
tremors when unshed tears are finally shed
tears I didn’t know I had
tears that are familiar
tears i’ve never seen before
and tears I welcome back
i’ve never felt more at peace
than when I’m screaming out
about my pain to someone
who finally understands
someone who finally believes me
someone who knows just what it is,
the hell that I’ve been through.
the hell that she’s been through,
our hell, the same but different.
these tears help keep me
right in the present
where my pain is most intense,
right where the healing is.
You fight an endless battle,
with the world,
with sleep and with joy.
You haven’t known
peace in a very long time,
but you’re a strong boy,
in shining armor,
with callouses and scars
stubborn eyes
when your story ends
you’ll still have sparkling teeth
and hands covered in blood.
A year later and Night Moves still plays at work
And I still think of you,
Only this time, Scar Tissue plays too
Which is now your favorite song,
And you flood into my thoughts twice
And I think how we aren’t what we used to be,
How now I am just a black-haired beauty to you
And that you’ll just be a scar left on my heart
A story to tell when I’m drunk
A vinyl I’ll shove in a box and put in the attic
That I was in love and you were just reckless and bored
That I was just fallin’ all over myself
I’ll think of the nights you showed me these songs
And without you even trying,
You foreshadowed us,
You probably had no idea,
And now with the birds I’ll share this lonely viewin’
Drove home the back roads tonight,
hair smelling of burnt espresso and sweat,
radio surprisingly silenced for once as my mind reeled.
Mile by mile I traveled while a year’s worth
of sepia-steeped vignettes played back like a flipbook:
shaken iced matcha lattes, sweet and foamy rich;
strawberry acai lemonade orders received
in English, sign language and Spanish;
cracking up with coworkers ’til we were in stitches
as a barista lost a battle with the whipped cream.
Felt a lot like Prufrock, measuring the last year
of my life in coffee spoons, but my kind of spoons
were doled out the last 365 days
by however many my neurospicy brain
decided to give me for any particular day.
Often, I’d wake up lacking in the spoons
to even lift the blanket off my still-weary body
and begin the day. Other days, I might have
seven or eight to get me through;
I could ration those to be pleasant for a shift,
greeting guests and fellow baristas with a smile,
just collapsing into bed once I got home from work.
Might seem a little odd, to people who function typically,
why I can also measure the past year in nighttime showers,
but self-awareness saved me from those pesky
morning panic attacks when I had too much to do
to get ready for work, even when all it might have been
was a quick shower with teeth brushed, face washed,
makeup done simply and hair tossed up in a ponytail.
Continued along the winding country lanes
from the first day of my second year in the barista life
and the flipbook begins to slow its pace as it gains
a mental soundtrack made famous
in one of my most beloved Broadway favorites:
How do you measure, measure a year…
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee…
How about love?
Measure in love.
Some people who have gotten so far
in reading this poem might now begin
to understand why my parents surprised me
with an ice cream cake to celebrate
my work anniversary,
namely since there truly have not been
that many similar years’ worth
of milestones about which to speak,
let alone be joyful. But I’m grinning tonight,
swirling vanilla through chocolate
with my last spoon for today.
I’ll smile until sleep sweeps me away,
for I’m measuring my year as a barista
in a heaping, proud spoonful of self-love.
Breathe deep the hazy smoke of wildfires.
Branches lurking in the breezes
gently wrap around my throat.
Tendrils, invisible,
swirl into my eyes,
nose, trachea.
Canada,
we share
air.
