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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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

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.