it rained in arizona so i had to write a poem about it

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Forget umbrellas, kiss me
under stormy stars and iridescent

clouds. I want to be drunk
on you and soaked with whiskey dreams

-the oak and wishful
thinking always reminded me of

you anyway.

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What it’s like to be a lost boy

I got up and stood out in the sunshine,
but the shadow on the pavement
was not mine. She is lost.
I’ve been searching for her, but I
don’t think she recognizes my voice
anymore. So many people think they need
someone else to save them,
to recover their shards once shattered. I thought
I needed you to save me. But you flew away
long ago, and nothing has felt the same, except for
how ardently I admire her independence.
She floats with the swiftness of 1000
freed butterflies-
maybe she doesn’t want finding. Maybe she
doesn’t need saving. My shadow, she probably laughs
at all the leaps and bounds I’ve gone to
get her back, when it was really you who were
standing behind me all along.

Sometimes I wonder if you have regrets like I do

You’re allowed to change your mind
and you’re allowed to do it without
explaining yourself. You don’t need
permission for your opinions, and
you certainly didn’t need my okay
to leave. Because you left, and you
didn’t look back. And now I’m standing
here after all this time still wondering
if it was me who needed to ask whether
you thought staying was a good idea, or
if forgetting all together would be more
appropriate.

weathervanes and paper planes

if you could fold me in half,

you’d see the way my skin

wrinkles under your fingers.

each indent reveals every

way your touch manipulates

my body. it is small. impressionable.

fold me again and watch how

easily i collapse. crease the corners

and listen to the way i sing,

cradled in your palms. hold me.

don’t let go. we could talk about

how you would follow

wherever the wind takes me,

but what if the direction i

soar is not where you want to go?

The Topography of Your Body

//an open letter to anyone who needs a reminder of just how

magnificently they were perforated//

 

You are so incredibly beautiful.

Darling,

you:

home,

are so complex- and not in the way

that stupid boy meant when he

told you this last year. You are comprised

of rivers and

valleys and

craters and

more stardust than I can hold in my

two hands. The curvature of your spine

channels holy water

all

the way

down

to your stubby toes. You complain

about how much you hate to show a little skin, but

darling, you are already naked. My eye traces

the routes across your bare flesh, dresses you

with grace, finds a compass pointing us toward

the bedroom door. You can leave like

this. Darling, you are the most intricate map

I have ever had the pleasure reading.

 

Like Rain on Warm Pavement

I’m afraid

that I will never be the man my mother

always said I could be,

said I would be. I wish I’d told her

that her son was born with an intense desire

to be anything other than ordinary

coursing through his veins. They were small, but held

passion for things she’d never understand.

I am strong like her, but I failed to try-

also like her.

Her little boy was gone before she knew it,

like rain on warm pavement-

disappearing through the cracks

before her very eyes. I remember how they glowed;

jade and amber swirled around

the darkest pupil. She said my father loved her most

for them, but what did he know about the woman

who raised the sun he’d never

see?

I wish I’d told her that I was born

to be the fire in the sky

reminding her that she did something right.

Great Barrier Reefs, & Other Things That Grew Between Us

There’s coral in every memory I have of you. 

Vermilion and viridian, saffron limbs. I remember 

the way you entangled me at night. Surfing the crest

and embracing the crash. Now the waves

just roll on by, spray salt in my eyes and laugh- 

I suppose it’s yours.

Maybe we weren’t ready for an ocean song.

Maybe I’m still learning how to swim.

What it’s like to be romanticised

It would be wrong to compare me to a sunset. I cannot be the firey fuchsia reflection in your eyes. I am nowhere close to your indigo dreams. And I certainly am not your kind of beautiful. I need to be explained. Interpreted. My pinks and reds and purples are skin deep, and to touch them is a mistake you are smart enough to avoid. Colors blend and bleed and you are witness to the magic. But just as our sky turns to art, it disappears without warning like a shy child. And maybe, just maybe, we do have something in common.