Casualty of Living

Three times a year just isn’t enough.

You pull me close, as you always

do. You smell like evergreen and wind

like you always do. Sitting in the stiff,

floral chair, you tell me about the good

old days and complain that grandma’s cooking

isn’t what it used to be. We are the quiet

ones, you and me. We sit together in the corner

of your tiny apartment listening

to stories we will never remember.

I can’t stop staring at your hands. Only

seven fingers– a casualty of living– as 

you like to say. I can’t stay long, 

but I hug you tight and whisper,

See you tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes and goes.

Wouldn’t It Be Funny…

If it was just coincidence or chance or any other collection of little choices that led me to you

If your fingers fit around my fingers like the flavors of a candy cane

If I were an unforeseen rain and you were an ocean, collecting each drop to replace those lost before

If I sprawled lazily across your chest and legs, a tangled mess daring to be undone; me pressed into you like white knuckles before the blow

If life gave me you, a gift too late for its occasion, and begged me to unravel

If you weren’t meant to be kept or claimed or belonged to. You were meant to be appreciated and cherished and let go of

If this were the last night I ever spoke to you

If I got more of you than I was ever meant to have.

I Would Rather Miss You

I would rather just miss the way my name sits on your tongue and lingers, not wanting to leave but dying to be spoken.

I would rather just miss your hands, donned with chipped fingernail polish, caressing my favorite hot chocolate mug as I watch a drop spill onto the carpet.

I would rather just be etched into every idea and thought, swirling and threading my way through your life.

I would rather just miss your body sprawled onto my clean comforter, scrolling through your phone listlessly, completely confident in existing together.

I would rather just miss you because being there is not the same.

Being there is needing to do everything correctly but there is no correct way. I am always wrong. Or a little too late. Or a little too loud. A little too much.

Being there is thinking thoughts so loud I might explode.

So I do

and the shards reopen wounds that I begged to heal.

I love you, 

but

I would rather just miss you from here.

Leave Me With Something

It’s funny to watch you do it,

each step charging forward, but your weight held back.

Pulling, looking, searching, begging

for me to give you a reason.

Then, I realize this is your first time.

You’ve never left before.

Just because you’ve never left before

doesn’t mean you get it easy.

No, you have to look me in the eyes.

You do and you show me

everything you’re taking with you

away from us.

I see us sitting on the edge of a couch together, huddled under blankets with hot chocolate steam rising and blurring your glasses.

I see you calling after me, pouting because I didn’t let you open my car door.

I see more moments than we’ll ever have together flit past me, and I want to reach out and grab one- tuck it in my back pocket to 

save a piece of you. 

I feel smaller, emptied, taken as you blink at me.

The blinks erase those final doubts from your mind,

patting you on the back, coaxing you to take the final steps.

It’s not funny anymore, watching you leave.

It’s my weight holding you back, not yours

and you look better without it.

Some Things That Haven’t Changed

At times, the world seems as if it’s on a 

Single spoke

Spinning spinning spinning.

For a brief moment, I see my childhood

Like catching a glimpse of a skyscraper

Out of the backseat window.

I press my face to the glass

Hoping to hear the laughter

But time makes us forget 

Even important things

I don’t hear laughter, but I do hear her–

Young me, I mean–

I hear her thoughts

I can’t do this

I bet they hate me

Why do I hate myself

Her thoughts entangle so tightly with my own

Etching their way back into my bones.

They retrace once-forgotten whispers

That had left marks along every inch of me.

I peel my face off of the glass

And smudge my imprint until it’s no longer eyes, nose, mouth, forehead

But a large blur altogether.

I wish I could reach out and tell her

It gets better with time

But I feel her words freshly pressed into my skin

And I think

Maybe once we’re older

The single spoke continues to turn

And just like it, the words roll back to me

Sometimes the past reminds us of how far we’ve come

But mostly,

It reminds me of the words I still cannot escape.

When We Were Girls

We fluttered through life together

One the other’s tether, keeping each other upright and close

We stole hidden glances with a cocked brow and crooked smile

As we discussed everything around us without saying a word

Our lips were like a sealed Ziploc bagging, begging to be torn open 

Its contents spilled over late-night snacks and muted movies

Foreheads and arms like appendages to each other as giggles 

bubbled up and overtook our conversations

Some days the loss of what we were together gathers in my 

Chest and pumps through my body like blood

Some days my body remembers you more than me

Resigning control to your ghost limbs, being who we once were

I miss you most in a room full of people as I stand alone

Unsure of who to become

Thank You

You smell like SPF 30 on the 4^th of July

with a hint of burnt skin because 30 isn’t enough.

The wind whips in all directions but leaves your hair untouched.

You squint into the sun to acknowledge and thank its presence.

I squint at you to do the same.

Water kicks up and stings my cheeks as we slosh over wave after wave

but I don’t mind because your mouth follows each drop.

I tip my head back and close my eyes, breathing in tanned skin and spilled

seltzers.

You laugh at something someone says, genuine and free, and it’s then that

I understand.

The sun retreats behind the treetops until its body is hidden away.

A golden aura overtakes the sky, illuminating figures in the clouds.

You point at one and say it looks like a woman praying on her knees.

I think, she’s not praying; she’s saying thank you.

Your fingertips dance across my skin, playing the first song you ever

learned on the guitar. I hum along while your fingers

dance and hope the music never stops.

Observations I’ve Made While Never Leaving My House

Joyce, formerly of Tom & Joyce, reclines in her rocking chair. She looks out the bay window to watch the cars speed by. She waits for her son to come home.

Lights flicker in Neighbor Girl’s bedroom window. Her light a beacon to the boy waiting, tucked well into blooming shrubs. His black pickup parked a quarter mile down the road against freshly trimmed pine trees. The rest of her family bows their heads and clasps their hands while she sneaks out the window.

Through my wall, I hear Loser’s speaker warring between music and a girl. There’s always a girl. Vibrations carry through my body as music wins again.

Gene, Mr. Adventure, parks his bus for the last time. The next day, the FedEx truck arrives, unloading planks of plywood to fashion into a ramp. He wheels onto the front porch and sighs. A ramp for Mr. Adventure wasn’t part of the plan.

Grandma-and-Grandpa-Next-Door sit beneath the wilting willow tree. A half-emptied pitcher of Lipton iced tea sweats onto the picnic table. I wave, they wave; we all look away.

There’re Certain Things You Trust in Michigan

There are just certain things you trust in Michigan—

You trust the lakes will be blue, and fresh, and never

sting your eyes.

You trust the sun sets over Michigan

            And rises over Huron.

You trust the mosquitos in the dead of July

slipping through frayed hems of your sweatshirt.

There are just certain things you trust in Ludington—

You trust dandelion arms carry your wishes

            Over each and every cornfield

You trust the deer in the ditch never move

            But they do anyways

You trust neighbors with bright smiles and different views on life

            Squinting at you through rust-colored glasses.

There are just certain things I trust in Michigan—

I trust orange cones pushing me toward tire massages

            Adding twenty minutes to every journey.

I trust sand always sneaking into somewhere

            Never truly washing away.

I trust my first kiss—slippery and rushed and too hazy

            To have been important.

There are just certain things I trust in Ludington—

I trust the first sliver of sunlight peeks through

            The silhouette of a cat in my blinds.

I trust the tired rope swing by the lake, sighing as it ties itself together again,

secretly hoping there’s always one more jump.

I trust I will come back.

Running Away Has Never Been Easy for Me

Gravel crunches beneath my feet and pops out like marbles. Step, pop. Step, pop. POP! My bubblegum sticks to my lips. I try licking it off, then picking it off, but it clings to the cracked skin. I packed my Cherry Bomb lip gloss, didn’t I? I look back up the driveway. My eyes zigzag with the gravel until they stumble on my old bicycle. Missing a handlebar, Dad rested it alongside the house. I’ll get to it soon.

I didn’t notice until now, how my right arm shakes. Is it from the weight of the backpack or something else? One Hop before the other; I know it’s that easy. But Scotch free, can I make it?

I follow the driveway until it stops, and the marbly gravel stops hopping along. My toes inch closer to breaking out of my sneakers, craving the touch of concrete. But I stop them short and pull them back in. What will you do when you get there? Where will you go? Who will you find?

What is beyond this gravel I’ve always called mine?