cigarette requests

brown corduroy button-ups, a bunch of sunflowers tied with red and white string, casting lines but not getting any back, an odd dream, pillow-printed skin, cigarette requests, fulfilling them but not telling, summer apartments, pantry shelves, hazelnuts, red wine, Taco Tuesdays, sleeping in, sleeping it off, sleeping the days away, ceiling fans, the fine line between receiving mixed signals and over analyzing everything, wanting to collapse that distinction, coping anyway, broken cups, broken blinds, broken hearts, a tiny tuft of laundry lint, borrowed tee shirts, mostly empty movie theaters, the cool cement leaf smell of literally every garage ever, the first frost, morning fog, panic attacks, bathtubs, bath-time, bathwater, a book terming Seneca’s suicide “a decision to open his veins.”

things to do instead of getting high:

write a list, write a poem, go for a run, cook something, play bananagrams, do readings, call your girlfriend, finish your lab, check Facebook, tag your girlfriend in strange memes, text her till you miss her, feel it hurt, make a to-do list, do something on that to-do list, masturbate, file your taxes, read one of those fiction books on the bedside table, ride your bike, make your bed, listen to love songs, do the laundry, clean the tub, take down the old christmas decorations, watch a show, organize your desk, call your siblings, call your mom, ask for pictures of the cat, daydream about summer, about a family.

all of the hours

i miss you
like i miss blackberry vines on fences.
the pull and pluck and sting of thorn,
pink-black juice and blood.

i miss you
like i miss fish tanks.
the swirl of water and flipwink of fins,
how their tiny ‘oh’ mouths open and shut, open and shut

i miss you
like i miss the mountains in summer.
cool mornings, fog drifts,
dove song, and the smell of hot leaves.

i miss you
like i miss the Bahamas.
you and me and white linen curtains.
coffee in rocking chairs, gently kissing in the dark.

i miss you
like i miss unbroken bones.
no ache, no discomfort, no shame, no aloneness:
a body righteous, repaired.

i miss you
like this, like that, like all the above.
this distance rends me in ways I can barely understand.
it hurts, and i hate it.

will you come back, my love,
and be as kind and careful as the day we first met?
will you bring passion and stories and fire in your hands?

i know that you will, and i’ll do the same:
that way we’ll fuse our lives together again.

a list of things hopefully in my future

her and garages and maple leaves and sweaters and coats and buttons and shoes and dates to that italian place. hand holding and birds nesting and ponds growing and then shrinking. grocery stores and old boots and windowsills and paint buckets. ice on the tip of your nose and the constant overwhelming heat of your being and bands of freckles and a surprise tattoo. sunsets and summer camps and sleeping bags. listening to my favorite song as i walk across campus in white light and strutting a little. aquariums and sailboats and eddying currents and blue crabs and claw pops and beach chairs and hot dogs. babysitters and soccer games and snowcones and county fairs. words and wings and good books and poetry and magnets and old posters. keys hung up on a wall and a dish for coins and talking about politics and energy and people and colors and health scares. warm chapstick and teacups and zipping up dresses. sand in the sheets and flip flops and acorns and yardwork. weird euro-trips and train rides and bus coins and cafes on rivers and knowing the bartender. the idea of stars and gravity and cosmic evolution and Darwin’s evolution and the smallness of us and the bigness of our dreams and again, the smallness of us and and the bigness of time. sunscreen and backpacks and stacks of papers and dustpans. rainstorms and puddles and fitting under one umbrella. kissing and baking and writing and smiling and meeting parents and brothers. riverbeds and going to the ballet and ice cream cones and a few drinks too many. lisping voices and  one wandering eye. tights and bathrooms and baths and bathwater. goosebumps and old shoes and dust floating past bright windows. making sandwiches and bicycle riding and waterpark swimming and bottled sodas and movie theaters and park benches. sometimes getting tired of each other but always missing you after just a few thinks and finding new freckles and hands under sheets and cold march mornings. the perfect stillness of waking up next to you. all is quiet in our house.