Typewriter

No mistakes
Only blue oceans and red fire trucks.
I want to love and to love you back, but that’s a mistake.
That’s a foggy summer day and a question mark on a declarative sentence and that sentence is
something will go wrong
I’m afraid I’ll never find owls at night and doves in the morning because
lately it’s only been fish and dry land
when everyone else
found the water. I’m not
the field of flowers for your orchids, I’m the aquarium.
I spell numbers, not letters, and they’re not adding up right.
Wrong turns get me where I need to be, and I’m the
lighting to your
calm.
The path less traveled is well worn
and I make empty, pretty words
that meant the truth
of the matter is that
nothing is the matter because everything is wrong.
I draw my motorcycles with four wheels because I want to
get there faster and my planes with no wings because
I don’t know where I’m going.
A forest full of trees? I’m a forest full of grass because
it’s the little things in life.
I’m the bright blue sun
the drop in your faucet
an ocean full of orange
and a past of mistakes
that pave the way back the to future
and forward to the dawn.

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Half Luck

Katie never kept anything because between keeping things and letting go, letting go left less room for looking back and looking back is painful.
So when she found herself in yet another situation where she was going to have to let go, she was ready because she had had a lot of practice. Then he told her that she could keep half of his luck.
No. No, she thought. Throw it away like you did with the ends of shoelaces, handwritten pencil letters in your drawers, songs made just for you on shiny CD’s, and stardust cobwebs on your heart. Throw it away like you have to throw away

fast cars through beach towns with illegal parking jobs
clumsy fingers, nylon strings
hand in hand electricity across a dance floor made
for leather soles and weathered souls
blended voice melodies like cannons in the sky that
break the ice on a shooting star, wishing across the sky like
the ice blended drinks that spilled across the floor into
laughter and 2 AM conversations about how
beautiful she was.
Like the thought of a whisper in the middle of the afternoon when her chest was full of the things
she’d let go – a prayer that it was going to be okay.
Throw it all away. Throw it away like it doesn’t feel like stepping all over wildflowers or searing your hand on the kitchen stove. Like you’ve lost a piece of what you’re looking for.

She was ready, ready, ready, unprepared and breaking but ready until he gave her that last thing to drown all her hope in. Half luck. Wouldn’t that mean three and a half years of walking under ladders for the both of them? Or did he have so much heart that the cup would always stay half full?
Half full still meant half hungry and half hungry could mean half starving again. She was thirsty for reckless abandon into twilight hours. She knew to get it one day, after he went away forever, that she’d need to be really, hopelessly lucky. But for now she’d take all the luck she could get.

you’re made

God recycles and when he made you he chose the prettiest pieces of seashells and the parts in fairytale stories where there are happy endings
out of upside-down kisses in water droplets
You were made from the gossamer
light spinning on spider webs and
everything I ever wanted but
tiptoed away
like a wave retreating-
nothing I can do.
from lightning bolts on gravel roads and the
person in that old scrapbook who makes
you wonder what life was like.
Of the breath of relief after jumping off
the cliff but
the feeling of falling, too
and waiting to fall.
When the candle blows out and it’s dark.
Of a million stars in the dark that you’re not quite
sure aren’t just fireflies
You were made of the love I never got
the chance to hold so
you were made of the hues of ice cubes at the bottom
of a glass of whiskey and
they sky when the clouds are full of rain
the planks of wood on the pier that smell
like sea salt and the neon in Las Vegas lights, the curl
in the corners of a roadmap
to somewhere I’ve never been and
to my heart.
The flames near a glassblowers hands
before the colors are done glowing bright and
I have time to miss them.
he also made you out of
all those puzzle pieces that try to
fit together
but never could