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Grief was an old blanket; threadbare and begging to be disposed of. But it was warm and heavy and smelt like home. 

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My love.

You’re extraordinary, which is to say you verge on absolute perfection. Of all the numbers in my life, you’re zero; you might seem like nothing, but to me you’re everything under the stars. Let me be the one to your zero and we could forever live on as code within the great, terrible technological atrocities and miracles that creep across the world strangling sincerity and hard work like ivy throughout time. I love you the same way I hate hugs, where somehow you make it a blessing whenever you strangle my arm. I love you because of the way you listen to my rants and look at me like I’m the only person in the world, even when I’m discussing the biology of a rat's uterus, or something just as stupid. Your smile and your laugh are something that I couldn’t live without. The ecstasy of them gets me higher than the stars, where all that exists is you and me. The secret to life, the universe and everything is 42? Bullshit. You are my universe, my sun my moon and all of my stars. I revolve around you like the Io to your Jupiter because you are so large in my life you’re beyond comprehension, yet you still fit within the confines of time and space. The miracles of centuries passed come nowhere near the extent of your glory; Nessie and the Mothman could get married on a December morning and I would still be in less awe than I am at the sight of you. My eyes watching your eyes watch the sunset are so full of love and poems left unread and songs left unsung for you I could explode, spewing so many words and chords that the Earth would be flooded with my praise: I would never let you drown. You are unraveled and beautiful, like sun peeking through on a rainy day. You send me pictures of the sky when it’s in pretty colors and in those clouds I see you, ever-changing and so, so terribly wonderful. You’re an exemplary sunset, all pinks and whites and that ethereal combination of yellow and blue. You’re a bouquet of beauty, grace, wit, and forget-me-nots; your favorite flower that I will not forget just like I could never forget to think of you. Every second of every hour of every day you’re stuck in my mind like the sticker you put on my phone case, a vine blooming with flowers that are my favorite shade of purple. When you’re in the room, my eyes are glued on you like cellophane to static: no matter where you go or how you move, they’ll never really leave. And you’ll look at me, and you’ll laugh; that bubbling sound that echoes in my skull louder than it would if you screamed it in a rotunda. If that laugh ever changed; if my zero was changed by a trillionth of a bit, I don’t think I’d ever be the same.

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You know what I live for? Sunday mornings

A temperature so cold and bitter that it stings, but a sun illuminating the snow and highlighting the stillness

Empty streets, so much of the town asleep

Long talks with your best friend, who you’ve been stuck in church with for ten years, even though he’s now in a different state and you’re still here, where you’ll always be

Your moms beautiful voice echoes through the church of a God you’ve never seen, but the way her voice has sang the same song for so many years is a consolation and a consistency that warms you and makes that God something you can pretend to believe in

This building, still with the same chairs and the same floors that have been there since you were just two weeks old when you came for the first time

Religion is so often a prison, but there’s also comfort in the same songs and the same lessons and the same person, even if you’ve outgrown those lessons and your person, your favorite person, had to leave

This place is home, to you as much as that God you’ve never seen

And you get to watch all the little kids that worship you like the God they’re supposed to believe in grow up in the same way you did.

And maybe there’s more things that are similar between you and that God that lives here than you think 

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I said my favorite word was ecstatic and you said yours was static

I was happy, and you were fuzzy and distant

No. That’s how I want to remember it. But that’s an injustice, isn’t it?

You were… kind. But I think the thing that stood out most was that you were funny

Whatever came close to love in that is no use without humor

A rapport. That’s what made you great. A mispronounced word led to a wonderful spiral of conversation

We saw the world the same, but had such different opinions

You said you were too busy playing persona 5 to cut your hair, I said I liked mine long

I said I believed in religion and you said you believed in science

I don’t know if I can love like the stories I write

Math is easier than that

But if I could love, you were what I needed. Fun. An instant partner for banter.

Sadly, I think the loveless thing was yet another thing we agreed on

Now you’re a gentle static over a romcom

A gentle distortion of the story that makes it feel like something I could achieve

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Church; Poems from Sunday mornings

Religion

Raised to believe

That coming every week

Means everything

I sing the songs,

I pray the prayers,

I’ve been dedicated, baptized,

And yet, I waver.

Maybe that feeling

From church camp last summer

Was God. Was my purpose.

Or maybe it was the prospect of purpose.

The thought that this could be who I am.

That this could be what fills my cup.

Homeless

They smell of smoke.

Of fear.

Of debt.

They look tired. Done.

We’ve donated, tidied;

Made their place nice and clean.

And yet, they reek of melancholy.

Maybe all humans desire independence;

The ability to sustain themselves.

But these sad people on the streets have to hope for others’ kindness.

Jesus is in Nebraska

Jesus is in Nebraska,

He left us all behind.

He was always a great friend,

Who let me speak my mind.

But now, he’s at his home.

And not back here with me.

We could talk about anything;

We could let our ideas free!

But now, he’s up and gone.

And I’m left alone on Sunday mornings.

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Poems Commissioned by my Friends During Science:

Olivia bolivia, always up ahead.

What I wouldn’t give to be there instead.

But sometimes I wonder if you feel the same

About me when we’re playing a different game.

Chicken or bacon

Shovel it all in

I hear it callin’

My name

Sometimes when you sing,

I wish my voice would ring,

Like yours, without any doubts to hold me back.

Treat her right,

Or I will fight

You to the death, right here and now.

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As I look outside

I see snow, so bright

Illuminated like a nice clear night

and I think to myself

This is what I live for

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My grandpa’s jigsaw. It’s the only thing I have of his, and it doesn’t work. It’s a “someday” item, an “I could if…” When the space is right, the project, the time. The potential of a broken saw, a bridge to the past. Future projects, echoes of the holiday decorations he (lovingly?) cut for my grandma to paint. Did he sweat and swear over the cuts? Delight? The truth is, I never saw him use it. A saw could mean anything, which is why it waits in my basement instead of gracing the curb with the rest of my cobwebbed hoard. When I finally make that cut, will it mean something? Or is a saw, a saw, a saw?

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Inverted Haikus

Tomorrow

My leg will bob up and down.

I’ll squint my eyes and

Try to see the distant screen

Lovely

Lovely is the word that I

Write on my paper

Over and over again.

Band

Whether a squeak or a song

Every note that

Comes out, a sweet symphony.

Memories

My memories are precious

Times that have long passed

Imbued in my heart today.

Mystery Noise

Echoing from the hallway—

Was it a loud sneeze?

We laugh, for we do not know.

Murder

Murder is only as strong

As we make it. Is

It death? Or just a few crows?

Question

As I close this tome of words

I wonder: what can

I do to make history?

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What is Christmas?

As I hang the lights and stockings, I think:

“What is Christmas?”

I contemplate this more and, well…

There’s the obvious:

“Happy Jesus’s birthday!”

This satisfies me, but not for long.

I think again, before the second answer hits me.

“A capitalistic holiday made to sell goods.”

I feel proud of myself, like I’ve cracked some code.

Something philosophical, like

“You may be ‘simply having a wonderful Christmastime,’

but the big bucks corporations have been pulling the tinsel over your eyes.”

I smirk smugly to myself, like knowing this will mean that I’m somehow immune to the propaganda.

I go to grab an ornament before thinking…

No, that’s not quite right. It may be true,

but Christmas is more than that.

I look around the room, asking myself for the final time.

What is Christmas?

I close my eyes and breathe in.

Christmas is the stockings tenderly hung.

Christmas is the lights on your porch.

Christmas is kids in shepherd costumes on the stage of your church.

Christmas is the cookies.

Christmas is the milk.

Christmas is the colorful wrapping paper adorning the gifts under the tree.

Christmas is Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” played on repeat.

Christmas isn’t a single idea or event.

Christmas is a season. An environment. A vibe, if you will.

Christmas is what you make it.

Satisfied at last, I return to my tree decorating.

Glancing out the window, I notice my neighbors’ menorah.

And suddenly, I think:

What is Hanukkah?

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That Feeling

That feeling

cannot be conjured.

That feeling

has to be forgotten

to be remembered.

That feeling

is it a dream

or a nightmare?

That feeling

a black hole that

holds everything.

That feeling

found in

the shadows

and

the highlights.

That feeling

creeping like a cat

coming when you least expect.

That feeling

in the turn of the page,

in the blink of an eye,

in the empty spaces.

That feeling

that has lurked so long

in the in-between

that it has become

the in-between.

That feeling…

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Second Place

I want to punch a wall. Repeatedly.

How could this happen? What’s the point of this. I should be first.

Oh, of course I don’t doubt their abilities. They practice hard. We’re almost identical on overall skill.

But they can’t do it like me.

They toil away in practice to perfect their work, and they deserve credit. I get that.

But they can’t do it in a day like me.

They get private lessons. Private lessons! While I do it on my own.

I care. I’ve always been my best. Why should they get credit for something they could prepare for so much better than me? It’s unfair.

It’s like a race. You run and run, never walking. You suffer, just to get beat by some hack that walked half the thing!!!

They’re not a hack. I get that. I admire them and they’re my friend.

I never practice at home. And even though it may sound lazy, it’s only because I don’t have to! I have it down by the second week!

While they’re at home, practicing for 3 hours a week to get it right, I’m at the same level without trying! (Trying extra anyway)

Don’t get me wrong, I love them. But still…

I have homework. I participate in several more extracurriculars.

I am skilled without trying I am superior.

I deserved to be first.

I want them to be happy, I want them to be proud of themselves.

But I’ll refuse to accept their pity.

Good for them.

Yeah, right.

We know who’s really in second place.