it’s the way I shut my eyes against the signs and the way I breathe deeper when the sun is down. it’s the way I spin and sway by myself in the lonely rooms. it’s the way I wrap my arms around my heart and let the bitter cold draw tears in my eyes. it’s the way I feel lightheaded when I stand up too soon. it’s the way I crawl into bed and count ticks on the clock to fall asleep to. it’s the way everything seems tilted and the world feels upside down. it’s the way for so long I’ve been so lost, I’ve never chosen to be found. it’s the way I like to feel the way it does when nothing is felt at all. it’s the way the words I can’t form wriggle in my mind. it’s the way I tell some lies to cover up some truths. it’s the way I forgive them all but I can’t forget my faults. it’s the way I can’t control who I am to you, when who I am is nothing at all. it’s the way the rooms spin around me. it’s the way I can’t let anyone hold me for too long. it’s the way I cry when I sing and the way I close my eyes when someone hugs me. it’s the way I don’t get too close. it’s the way I don’t admit I’m just lost. it’s the way I choose not to be found.

darling-
the sea’s in your eyes and
i wish i could drown in them
(like all the other lucky poets
before me) but the thing is: 

the sea’s in your eyes and
i am stuck in the dessert

maybe
(just maybe)
next year it will be 
radically,
      refreshingly, 
            rampantly,
different.

or,

maybe
(very maybe)
next year it will be
readily,
     rebukingly,
           resolutely,
the same.

Not even 
all the fireworks
in the world
could make me 
set your heart
on fire.

it is said
that the brain contains
a fixed amount of space
that can be filled with
thoughts.

science
must never have fallen 
in love.  

i do not know
what it is about you

that makes me:
wish i was a better person,
want to kiss your eyelids,
forget my own name,
cry alone at night.

(all at the same time)

There are too many books written about love, and I have read too many of them. How I wish I could fill seventeen chapters on your perfection, but there are no words for your smile, or the way you say goodbye.

It’s Thanksgiving in America and I’m in my room listening to a terrible 90’s playlist. Some Ugandans think it’s ok to pass a kill-the-gay-people bill and I’m in my room reading Brave New World. The Israel-Palestine conflict seems hopeless and I’m in my room writing letters for Amnesty International. Half a million people have fled the Congo since April and I’m in my room planning my summer holiday. They’re closing down the gypsy camp in Amsterdam and I’m in my room wondering whether their hunger strike will balance out all the Thanksgiving turkeys tonight. 

You and I are surely never going to be anything more than this.

P.S. I stole one of the tea bags from the box you left in my room and hid it in my jar of sugar, so that years from now, when we might not be speaking any more, I can pour hot water on it and fall in love with you all over again.

15 minutes until we can go home. I need a good night’s sleep. I guess it was stupid to think things would change. Nothing ever changes, really. I sing and dance alone on beaches and dream of being a living statue and write backwards. It’s getting cold again and I feel fine. I don’t owe anyone anything, yet I cannot shake the feeling I’m doing this all wrong. Sometimes I wonder if God’s proud of me. If nothing changes, why do I feel lost all the time? There’s the bell.