promises are for pinning down, like dried butterflies.

it’s 4am & i can’t sleep
because you’re stuck in my head —
looping in circles & making me sea sick.

i chase you around my mind
with a butterfly net
for over an hour and a half & counting
all our secrets left unspoken
slip between my fingers like smoke
disappear like the days
despite
the time we tried
to hold clock hands still.

my biggest problem is
with keeping promises;
i lock them in the basement but
they always escape
with the point to prove me wrong;

like the time i left & said
i’d never see you again —
i wanted to be right & i almost was

except

for every single night
& in my every dream.

anticipation is a thorny word.

the beginning is like dusty leather
coolcrispcrinkles against my skin
i’m afraid to be an open book, afraid of what i’ll find,
afraid that if i look, i’ll never be the same (again) (this happens every time) —
the flicker of anticipation that quivers in my stomach
that bubbles through my throat
courses it’s way up&down my veins
feels like i’m dropping out —

you are my kinda familiar you are my favorite sound
i am constantly refreshing & i am counting down,
i am getting my numbers all messed up
but again,  that’s kinda my thing.

“it’s been a while”, you’d say,
& i’d agree,
but i’m still here:
just standing outside the doorway in the wind, waiting for my mind… .  .   .   .
snap back to reality, and boom
again i cannot breathe
sometimes i’m surprised i’m still surviving —
cool irony that these’r
the only things that shock me
with some kind of consistency.

& now i’m too nervous
so i put it off —
my stomach has wings & i’ll take a minute or two
to chase it around the room

on two left feet &

arms that don’t reach.

like water i ran in waves

i was against the doorway
i was
against the line
i was against the shore crashing
cold against crooked rocks
bashed bloody black & blue no pieces left to use
mixing sea salt with secrets because
the crashing is the only thing that feels (real)
the only thing i have —
in this box, is this book
this book of stories; of secrets, of sound
of all the times i wrote my words away
& wrapped excuses with bowties but now
paper crumbles to dust, too shaky are my fingers to hold
wind rips away the yesterdays i spoke about
and paints them into the sky
in peaches, in purples, and in perspective

and for a minute i stop feeling —

and i’m free.