The way she wrapped
her arms around
my neck like I
was land and by
just holding on
through crashing waves
she’d pass the days
and find a way
to keep herself
from drifting out
to sea

but really she anchored me

Reaching up, up
where I keep the flannel sheets
as the tea steeps
steaming
battling a window breeze

Looking down, down
as the swirls of cinnamon
swim within the
pink mug
that your mother gave to me

Fireplace glows
as the wind begins to slow
and I know snow’s
coming
by the whisper in the sky

Time moves too fast;
can’t believe a year has passed
and I’ve not
felt warm
since the day we said goodbye

It wasn’t so much
a coming out
as much as it
was putting on
a cardigan
that’s been in the back
for years
and years
and realizing that
it was never too big
and never too small
it’s always
fit
just
right

I think
that I forgot
what it’s like
when I’m not
strapped in
eyes locked
to the spin
of the clock
in the same old
same old
daily routine 
where my brain’s
insane from 
the constant caffeine 
that I sip 
tip back 
just to keep me awake

when what I really need is just a break 

I kind of thought this lake
would be my Walden
but I’m not cut out
for the tonic of wilderness

(And the truth is this 
closest thing to wild
still has WiFi,
albeit weak)

This week
was supposed to be the disconnect 
I needed to come back 
refreshed 

But unless 
this water 
can wash away 
sixteen months of trepidation

I’ll return 
to the same life
of quiet
desperation

It’s far too dark for 3 p.m.
You’re too far gone to notice when
I slip outside and close the door
and walk directly toward the storm

The rain falls slowly, then in sheets
An icy pelt on my bare feet
The wind picks up with every step
The air grows thicker every breath

A flash of lightning splits the sky
The thunder isn’t far behind
I make a move to turn around
and notice something on the ground

I squint to get a closer look
And see that it’s a soggy book
I blink the rain out of my eyes
The title takes me by surprise:

“You Can Do It,” all in bold
I feel a flush despite the cold
I pick it up and wipe it off
and start to read it as I walk

The rain subsides as I slip in
The droplets clinging to my skin
I quietly begin to pack
and know, this time, I won’t go back

Empathy
can be
a disasterous assassain
in that
basically
when we
feel it all
we start to backspin
into
habits that
combat
the volume of emotion

and when it’s time to give a fuck
you realize that you have none

Curiosity:
a gentle gladiator
a silent advocator
propelling us along

and when there’s nothing else
at least there’s still the lure
to stay until we’re sure
that we’ve been proven wrong.

Sometimes a message
at just the right time
is only a message—
it isn’t a sign.

Sometimes the pause
or the brush of the hand
are just inadvertent
and not really planned.

Sometimes the shadows
hide nothing but light
and not something sinister,
just dark of night.

And sometimes the words
that distract you from sleep
have no deeper meaning.

It’s not always deep.

Yes,
we are all
hanging on
by a thread.
But what they don’t tell you
is that the thread count
varies
as time spools on.
One day,
you’ll be
down
to
a
single strand,
but time will
intertwine ’til
you’ve got enough rope
to pull yourself out of danger.
That’s just the nature
of this thing.
So don’t fault yourself
for the days in which
you have no idea how
the threadbare remnants
of stability
can keep you
hanging on.
Weave them together
with mine
and we’ll
hold
strong.