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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Ophelia

I’ll be driving on the curve of the bridge on my way home
and at the peak my heart is heavy as the moon.
that song’s on the radio again and there’s the steady lights of a plane in the sky.
a symbol of you. you were the dream that flies but never took off. you keep happening again and again. and down here on the ground i sing to the full moon that i want you back.
a rolling tamborine and a mismatched itinerary remind me it can never happen.
so i soar on through sadness, a hopeful passenger. riding wings of faith that i’ll find the way you lifted me up again somehow on my own. the nosedive will flatten out. i’ll crash into a new beginning.

The letter she never sent 

As the car floated through the canyons she
pictured that letter he never sent to her.
how she knew it would be full of things that would break her heart.
So she wrote her own
as they drove on through fog so thick
they couldnt’t see the future.
She wrote the letter about how she was afraid
and he wasn’t and
how she was always the one who let herself
slip away
because falling on her own
felt better than someone holding her close and
losing their grip.
Tread kissed puddles and she wrote about how he
asked her what she was thinking but
she had a thousand thoughts that were all more poetic than words
so as the hills rolled quietly against the liquid sky
all she could say was silence.
But she thought her words looked pretty stretched across the stars.
She liked them best pressed up against the raindrops on the window.
They painted the melody of a song she wanted to hear lit through the patchwork clouds.
He drove her through the town of dashed dreams. A little beach town where people came to say I love you or first thought it was possible they could.
Until the road stretches on and the timbre of the ocean
carries those words
on a current that says
you’ll have to try again someday.
And in the ocean breeze
on the moonlight cliff
she looked at him and wondered
if in that letter he never
sent
he said he wanted to be her someday.
She hoped she was somebody’s someday as she looked over the edge and remembered her somedays passed.
And then
on the road again with hands fitting together she thought about how things always
fell out of place
and she wrote him that letter she’d never send.
She wrote it through the puddles and paint lines
She wrote it in the palm trees and open windows and hair whipping across her face.
She weaved it through her memories
of camping under open skies
low valleys and high deserts
running through December rain
and freeway overpasses
she wrote it and it said
I love you.

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.

Popsicle stand

I don’t know what I’m doing I don’t know if I’ve done it but if it might be love I’m running from it. A mountain I’m not prepared to summit. What if this was my one hit; a miss, the rest of my life Instagram posts in backwards hats of how I’m definitely, totally not thinking I was the dart that never hit the bullseye. Never even played. Always prayed and delayed the chance to give someone a chance because I was turning renegade. Against the idea that anyone fit the grade, hit the mark, wasn’t afraid. The letter in the mail I slowing realize is never coming, the lyrics to the song I’m forever humming, the clumsy strings on the guitar I’m strumming. I want my life to be stunning but for now I’m stuck gunning down thoughts of regret and shunning. Chimney smoke in a cloud puffs say you’re not allowed to to the pursuit of happiness, till the show’s over bent and bowed. I’ve vowed to be the one who made a ripple, made it loud, but that horizon line’s far away and caught in shrouds. You’re close but I’m looking for you in the lost and found.
I just I just don’t want to be 20 bridesmaids dresses down the road and realize you were the white dress waiting to happen.

Uncertainties 

We stood on an ivory tower built up brick by brick with porcelain words. Fragile, discussing ever afters or perfect disasters. Discussing the moon haze night and the lives of the people below and pretending neither of us noticed we were the song stuck in each other’s heads and reflecting in each other’s eyes. But we did because you were the playlist to my summer. You sighed to the sky and said you didn’t want to leave. I said “I know” like some Han Solo knockoff because I am too scared to say things back. So we did a few more slow dances in our heads then walked down a spiral staircase into broken butterfly wings and drawn out goodbyes.

Homeless

He is
He’s shining when he walks into a room. And that other boy, he’s the one who tells her she’s beautiful.
That one, she’s half in love and starstruck in the light.
But the other half is still riding dandelion wings into the past.
That other one – it should work. Their hearts align. Things are easy. Around him she knows she’s the one that teenage boyfriends still dream about.
Just because it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s home.
She wishes she could take off her shoes and smile at the end of a long day. But you can’t live at a hotel.
Her heart is still framed in the eyelashes of someone she met in the spring. When stones skipped across rivers and the moon hung high and she was ready to fall in love. When his hand was in hers.
She knows they will never fit together again, but she’s cold and caught in the rain and tired of being homeless.

Never Getting Older

In a year from now I want to be the song on the radio.
The one that I flip through the stations to find, that other people call in to request.
And even when it’s not on or it’s good and over, parked in the driveway, I want to keep on singing. No matter what happens to me. No matter what driveway I end up on. Right now I laugh when the wind gets knocked out of me and wait for the next blow. I want to look heavenward instead and say that blow’s not coming. I am music notes on airwaves riding raindrops till I reach the sun. And it doesn’t matter that my heart’s gotten bruised and battered because when I’m sung I heal and there’s nothing quite like hitting that note.
I’ll write notes across crimson skies when times are hard, I’ll write across the clouds and the blue and into the ears of those who need me. I will seep through closed doors and out of windowpanes and straight on through the glass, never going out of tune. So tune into me, a living breathing melody of hope. I want to be stuck in people’s heads and the soundtrack to the movie of your life. Whistled under the breath of someone who doesn’t know where they’re going until they find the rainbow they’ve been chasing. I want to be the nostalgia on the lips of someone who’s remembered where they’ve been. A lullaby to all of us awake in the day and an anthem when night finally comes. I want to play a lovesong to the story of a life worth living.

hit delete 

I write you into the cracks in the sidewalk pavements to fill the empty lines and I write you into the notebook pages that I fold up and tape over my puncture wounds. I write you into the soundtracks I play in my head but sometimes I have to switch off the radio. I wrote you across my headboard in neon highlighters and hope, into a solid state of dreaming. I write you through the open window in the uneven sidewalks inbetween two worlds. I wrote you into my future but now I have to rip up the pages and take a shuddering breath and 

 hit delete 

Some nonsense for the road

Listening to songs about

Moving to a romantic city out there and spreading love across sunrises and sunsets 

Is like grasping at skydivers because 

Life’s a station where stationary is complacent and that boy’s halfway across the nation. Everyone’s chained to their places and wishing never erases 1,000 miles. Or 1,000 smiles at the thought that spring break lasts all year long. A song full of promises, see through rose rainbows straight into lava pits, all of this with no regrets except a tightening of the chest. It’s hard to express how love often forgets. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe then it’s good to wander, into crimson skies where tired eyes turned to say their last goodbyes. A goodbye is hardly over, usually a bad hangover, it’s a heart that’s always sober. Maybe it takes a cold October? Because months pass, pain fades on roller coaster escapades. Everglades? Anywhere where heartaches waves, the ocean sighing starfish blades. If there’s a way to be born and raised, it’s with a shotgun to survive and a map for the ways. Then set it ablaze, where something is is where something stays.