Soft hands pry open crooked doors to see
if she is still there beneath heaps of light.
Lost in time, stuck on a coffee stained word.
She moves over, so I can feel her heat.
When creaky floorboards squeak and windows flee
from dull latches, darkness sneaks in and bites.
Her soothing voice chirps-she is my songbird.
She combs my wet tangles, being discrete
to catch any drops before they run free.
​She's there when fragile things crumble and night 
time feels long; when innocence becomes blurred. 
Soft whispers to try to always stay sweet.
​You won't want my help when you grow older. 
I will - should have meant it when I told her. 

Forest:
You slash
and burn 
my limbs,
all desparate 
for a piece of my body.
I'm forced to watch 
your reckless
lives unfold 
as I'm shaped 
into all the excess
things you chain 
me for. 
I feel your ink
against my flesh
as you try to capture 
the magnitude of human fallibility
in your novels,
but somehow forget 
to look down at the saw 
clenched between your hands. 

Tangle your sheets
with different bodies,
but never explore
what separates their dewy
skin from the next.

Give them hope 
they can mean something.
Let this linger 
in the air 
as they pull their clothes back
over their heads.
Give them a kiss
for the road.
But once their feet hit 
the pavement,
throw their hair ties and scrunchies
deep inside your closet.
Shut the door on all of it,
along with your lies. 

Count each woman as a number.
Don't give them a name
or etch 
their faces in your memory.
Jot down the experienced 
ones for late nights,
Remember which are flexible.
Cross out the ones who talk
too much or wait to be held 
after all is said and done.
Circle the numbers
that always pick up on the first ring.
Keep them next 
to your bedside table.

Only dial 
when the moon swallows
the sun and spits 
out a coat of darkness.
Boast about who has waited 
for the stars 
to fade,
only to be kicked 
out the time the roaster crows.
Collect your high fives
and store them for lonely days
when you need something to remind 
yourself how much of a man you 
​truly are. 

Silence, 
at the end of the table. 
They just aren't as keen 
as they once were. 

They sit, 
waiting for a sound 
to be swept 
up and carried 
inside. 
But the wind 
these nights 
is quiet,
and still. 

Maybe it was the roar 
from the jets 
as he trudged 
across borders, 
protecting a country insistent 
on making the same 
mistakes. 
Coming home to find himself 
stranded, 
deserted, 
among all the people
he loves the most. 
What happened to
man down
and why are we powerless
to stop it?
​
They miss the click 
of his pen
from the morning crossword puzzles, 
and the afternoon news 
that remind him the world 
will always be one step 
ahead of him. 
But most of all, 
they miss the song 
that wakes him from his armchair. 

Only this time, 
the other line rattles
with vibrations. 

They imagine its happy birthday Papa
and that maybe it's just as crooked 
beautiful as they remember.

They can't hear the words 
that tumble 
out of his mouth to whisper 
I love you, 
but even with a broken 
record player,
the words still ring 
true. 

I clutch onto the ballon.
My feet dangle, 
as they skim over fluffy specks of dust

I tie the string around my hand 
and promise to never let it go. 
Just my balloon and me.

It catches onto a slight breeze,
bobbing and weaving past razor
sharp mountains.
​
My heart rockets,
ready to blast off into the horizon. 
Complete bliss fueling the engine.

But all it takes is a single branch,
beneath the bustle of green blades,
to pop what is fragile.

Flimsy string slips from my grip 
as I plummet 
back to planet Earth.

Anxiety slaps me in the face,
then says sorry. 
He swirls his fingernails deep
within my wounds,
then proceeds to ask how 
he can mend them. 
He stays up all night whispering 
cold, empty words into my ear, 
with the simple motive 
of seeing how long it will take 
for me to scream. 

At night when he jumps on my chest,
my whole heart does summersaults 
inside my body.
I wish he realized 
I'm not a trampoline. 

I often tell him he should pursue another career-
that I don't care for the pictures he paints in my head. 
But that's another thing about anxiety,
he doesn't listen. 
​
He is not the friend that hugs 
me when I'm down and strokes
my hair to tell me I am beautiful.
Instead he unwinds my progress 
and taints the image reflecting 
back at me.
His honesty turns to lies 
and I often forget what the difference is. 
I wish I could get him to leave,
but he has made my body his home. 

Sun:
I rouse
them from their sleep
with gentle kisses. 
Their petals unfurl 
against my glare. 
I promise
to always return.
For they should never dread 
the dark. 

Boy: 
I envision
the dimples 
that will illuminate 
her cheeks 
when the whiff
of summer infuses 
her senses.
Dainty buds
always blossom
with time. 

Husband:
When she sniffs
the sweet fragrance 
will the years of forgetting 
and empty silence
become a distant 
blur?
Can it buy
us back our youth 
and erase
the fine lines creased
across our brows?
Will it stand
as a remembrance 
that life requires
more than sunlight 
and water 
to really consider 
one alive? 
​