I still suck at watching Buffy,
but I think about you every goddamn day and
I named my guitar after you but
maybe it hurts to hold
and I love you and that is all
for the moment.
I wish you to utter the most joyous fucking leaves imaginable.
I stole that last line from a fanfic but the words are true and
to only say true things to you except when
to bleed you beautiful fantasies in case that might make them real.
no words are wasted on you because you
lay words to waste with your voice and your art
the way you move through spacetime,
a bloody astronomical anomaly.
I saw Anomalisa with our poet and
we cried in our proximal seats but
I couldn’t attend to the plot because the images and
sometimes that is how I felt just being around you but
your bike is in my shed and then-
my sense of time is tearing at the edges between my toes and in the corners of my eyes-
where I want you to see crow’s feet one day
please share in a private mess with me
again and I will feather down the stairs to
sit beside you on concrete steps
shivering silent in an alternate ‘verse
where we are both content,
the way my plaid shirt is content-
on the arm of a couch
thrown over a book that I stopped
reading when you walked
into the closet doorway of my
cringing spirit and whispered: