close, but not close

i tell the ghosts it's okay but they never believe me

pick-up truck

maybe it wasn't night, but an afternoon. maybe it was that day you took me through the woods by your house to that big lonesome body of water. i forgot what you called it. i forget what it's called and you won't answer my calls to tell me. you tell me nothing. we walked through the woods, me right behind you in the wrong shoes, the sound of leaves and twigs cracking under us feeling just like whatevers in my chest, under the skin, behind my lungs. there. the world was listening carefully to us, you could tell. we sat on the ledge of a wooden deck and put our feet in the water. i was shaking. we had white wine in plastic cups, i think. thats how i remember it. if the cups were not plastic i'm sorry. it might have even been rum. i don't remember how the sky looked, things were moving too fast for that but i know i kept looking up at it. it was much safer than your eyes but not bigger. i was so nervous even the trees had heartbeats. when we were back in your room all the light from the day had shrunk and swam inside us. a radiohead song was playing loudly. i floated backwards down with your hands around my back, you kissed me how the song sounded, it was 'house of cards' - i was only half sure i wasn't dreaming. it could have been that night we got really lost somewhere on the mountain. everything was pitch black-black. that mountain grew, expanded, it made new sounds. i remember we were suddenly somewhere very unfamiliar. thats lost right? it didn't feel like lost. it felt like dreaming. i felt tall and nomadic but i was still afraid. you found everything that fell. if i cried it wasn't for sadness. i promise it wasn't. we were on the edge of something and i should have gone right over. it seemed to go down very, very far, beyond the edge, a downward, dark abyss and i was too afraid. you took me inside. the rest was what it was.

bloom

- they all think we’re dreaming i think maybe they're right. are we up against the wall? are these our legs? are we baking chocolate cake? when love says shhh it is never polite and that’s okay. i’m not allowed chocolate cake, really, but last night i tiptoed outside to find you wearing the underwear i bought you in the kitchen making coconut macaroons for me and little tears came to my eyes. 

- october was apples dipped in caramel that i couldn't have but found in your eyes. it was wet woods, wet leaves, red oranges and ghosts and your knuckles, your knees. 

- you, grabbing the tall weeds around your legs as you walk, pulling the leaves off with your hands, a little boy again.

- jasmine flower tea and every time you say "you're so pretty."

- i used to sleep on the floor of our old apartment, almost underneath the bed. sometimes i'd cry. it's december now, you can tell with your eyes closed. i sleep inside of you. we even share a pillow.

618

when it comes on i taste it, i roll it around in my mouth like a hard sucking candy. i don't feel anything except mid-air and warm. i always think, 'it's coming' and then it does, its here, 'its happening.' it is crying without sound, without moisture, outside the bones, past me. i want to put the world in my mouth, i want to turn things into themselves multiplied. you have no idea. everything that touches you from now on will be made of light.
'my heart feels big, so, this' i say in my head and then i typewrite there. i walk forever there, i make everything else so, so quiet. i say 'so' twice. i go places i know really well but haven't seen in years and i breathe in with the hands in my heart. 
just walking. to walk. in the fall, in the winter, everywhere, every second, every season, walking was singing. 5:47pm, waiting on the train platform for the F to get to class, headphones and a stillness only a city could birth. to doctors appointments, to 6th street, to 13th, drunk stumbles at 4am - the night air so alive, begging you to dance, to acting class, to a party - butterflies doing those things to your heart, to anywhere, to nowhere, everywhere. every thing. when i say it i mean it, it's e v er y t h i n g. the sidewalks were big faces  that belonged to your family, ancestors, angels, to genuises and ghosts. it's one of the most beautiful things ever that existed, this place and time, it lives so largely in my heart and and if you look at it all right everything makes the most beautiful noise no matter whose died no matter whose dying, what pain? 
i'm crying
do you cry?
he asked me who i pray to and i said i'm not sure it just comes out. maybe the scratchy sound of bad classical music in doctors waiting rooms accompanied by that static feeling, waiting for what? for ruin? that man that was always outside of connecticut muffin on 1st street and 7th avenue selling books, the best ones. jumping into my parents bed in the mornings, their still sleepy smell and the pillow around my dads head, always pressed by his arms over both ears like he was locking his good dreams in. a babysitter i think i was in love with as a child, she had one curved ear like an elves that she'd always let me play with. a coffee stained and coffee scented toyota. a glass jar of pretzels, clasping open and shut, couscous and spices and chili, the framed photograph of my best friend so small, riding  the top of an elephant. the grapes in the backyard that fell to the ground from the overhead vine to stain up the bottoms of our feet. a wonderful older man teaching me to push my thumbnail into the skin of my fingers, hard, when getting a needle to dull the pain. i still implement this theory everyday.
how do you write the world down? it doesn't fit, i'd do anything to bring you but i can't. i can't. it will not allow itself to be contained. i drink too much tea, i try and rest, i read bellow and updike and i envision a healing, i let the words in my head slow-dance lazy and lull me to a daze i never share and i wait for the day i can hand it right to you.