It is only in my dreams
that we mean something to each other.
In reality we have never spoken.
I immortalize these words for my own sake,
in the hopes that their weight
will create a gravity sufficient
to draw you closer.
Someday I believe that we will meet on a street
where love runs deeper than cobblestones
and you will cross over to me
as often as it takes to be at my side.
Someday must happen soon
for I have drifted too long at sea
and fear that I might have
grown too foreign for domestic use.
The sight of you makes my feathers itch.
I pluck them delicately like the strings on a harp
and in their melancholy refrain
you can just hear my heart going off
like fireworks in the distance.
I could fashion a constellation
of our silhouettes as they congeal and contort
on the stark canvas of our outermost walls.
We would be spectacular together,
the way art is spectacular
when shaped by a singular instinct.
The stars, taken in their totality,
are not sufficient to encapsulate my wish
only your words have the power to shift continents,
whether to draw them near or push them apart.
Perhaps you too are a poet?
Summon me, I will answer.
I sit quietly thinking you into being on a bus.
Strangers side by side in rows
embroidered into their virtual lives
and vacant on the outside.
The seat beside me is empty:
it is an extension of myself,
my strangely glorified isolation.
If it were you there beside me
my whole life would be transformed in an instant
and I along with it.
My old skin has gotten too tight
and whenever I move my bones knock together.
My womb is deceased but her guile remains intact.
I can’t quite imagine what has taken her place.
It could be that I am filled up like a balloon,
only the air is not air but vestiges of a life
we could have together.
Someday when you have come to love me
I will grow another heart the size of your fist
and that heart will be more than enough to fill me.