letters in cursive


I've been writing a mess of poems lately and other sloppy things that I'm not sure what to call. They're mostly the result of me tampering with things I've written a long time ago, stuff about moments that meant something to me for some strange reason and I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but looking back on it there are certain details that stick out to me. Things about what romance looks like before you've had your first kiss and on the threshold of not being enough for someone who is something wildly more than enough for you. Or the very different ways in which females and males feel powerless to one another. And mostly they're about the people I spent time with either right before becoming a teenager or on the outbreak of being one -- and how unique your relationships with people are when living is effortless and yawning and time is spanning out beyond you so far that you think yours will never come to a close. I don't know, anyways, this is one of the few poems I feel happy with. Not because I feel like it’s particularly good or anything like that— but I think there’s only maybe five or six things I’ve ever written and when I re-read them I think:

“that was it. I said it like I meant it.”

You are a strange thing to me

saying sonnets under your breath
the taste of metal, fever dreams
reading spanish poetry to me
about strong women and lilac trees

the summer of broken air conditioners
and the burning sound of leaves beneath our feet

I write about love a lot because it makes no sense to me
it eats me up, i want to get it
my hands just don’t know how

but they try their damnedest

wanting to find a way to burn from the inside
emanating bravely,
like stars willing to lose all their energy
tiny windows in a building glowing fearlessly
even when the night threatens

i want to be twelve again
ride my bike by your house
climb that tree
carve our names into the bark
how there’s something so exciting
about destroying things with your name

I want to be seventeen
kiss you on the mouth
like I wasn’t sorry.

but I am,
and it boils like blood, it gathers like shadows

carving my name into your bark

I want to find you at the bottom of your stairs
wondering about why I was looking at the ceiling
how it was cracked in that corner
from guilt and the nights your mother spent praying to god
tell you how sorry I am
that we were both too young
to know what to do
with the way we were ready to love

ready to lose all our energy
burning fearlessly
even when the night threatens