A bug's life

Insects have six jointed legs, four wings, three body segments, two antenna, and one exoskeleton.

Six: The number of times I got distracted during work today just thinking about the way your hair falls behind your ears. I have been teaching for nearly ten years but today I paid no attention to the way Lee refused to share blocks with Claire until they were both crying.

Four: The number of dances we had on Saturday. I remember the tunes we danced to were Siren's Fiddle, Apple Blossom, The Hat Thief, and Heartbeats in A. In that order.

Three: The number of times I was sure I should kiss you but didn't this weekend. Once after our third dance, once at the late night song share in the sheep shed, and once as we were saying good bye and you were gazing into my eyes and my heart was pounding and I looked away first.

Two: The number of days it has been since we danced. The number of days I have been thrilled at every text I have received from you. The number of days I have analyzed and studied, to the minute detail every interaction we had this weekend. The number of days every love song I have heard on the radio has been about you. The number of days I have been penning poems on perfume scented paper with hearts over the dots on the "i".

One: One juicy enormous stupid fabulous secret crush on you.

Some days

Some days I miss you like the ocean pouring over the edge of the world
Uncountable gallons of water rushing into nothingness
In a roaring, pounding endless movement, impossible to drown out.

Other days you are a bruise on my heart
I only remember the hurt when I bump into the accidental memory of you:
When someone makes an offhanded comment about the linguistics of the Seneca Nation
Or I pass exit 18 on the Mass Turnpike.

Tonight I did not watch the sunset
I went shopping and did the laundry and the dishes and vacuumed my rug,
Exercises I refuse to turn into a metaphor of missing you.
I did miss you anyway
An ache to match the distant hum of my sleep-deprived headache building up behind my eyes.

When I finally lay down, exhaustion a twisting pain in my back and neck
I lay in bed with my eyes wide open staring at the ceiling.
I had to turn on the fan so something would drown out the constant murmur of your name in my ears.

Goodbye

I miss the sun
Waiting
In her cloudy bed
Below the earth.

Some days I cry
For hours
At the kitchen sink
Because something

Reminded me
Of you.
And when I die, burry
Me in red earth

Beneath a lemon
Tree and
Make lemon and rhubarb
Pie from my bones.

And tell all the
Non-believers
That my spirit wrings
Bitter tears from stone.

The day you left
Was sunny
And sweat ran rivers
On my back as

I watched you leave.
"Sunshine,
Come back!" I called but
You couldn't hear me.

Witching weather cont'd

I don't want sunshine. That tame, sleepy warmth.
Give me storm clouds, gath'ring like a  coven
On the horrizon, clothed in their best black
Cocktail dresses, throwing amphibious
Ingredients with abandon into
A cauldron until something starts to boil.
I don't want sunshine. I want witching weather.

Give me the kind of witching weather that
Sucks the breath out of large men and blows the
Strongest off their feet. Give me the kind of
Witching weather that will tangle in the
Long dark hair of my lovers and whisper
Secrets into their lovely ears. Weather
That will bring the rain like an explosion.
I don't want sunshine. I want witching weather.

Give me lighting on the horizon and
Pressure licking my skin. Give me the hair
Quiv'ring on the back of my neck and shaking
On my arms. Give me thunder rumb'ling under
My boots and air with rain I can taste.
I don't want sunshine. I want witching weather.

I want to dance through the storm. I want to
Fuck through a hurricane. I want lightning
To pour through my body and light up my
Every nerve. I want to stand against a
Tsunami and let the wave wash me away.
I don't want sunshine. I want witching weather.

Witching weather

I don't want sunshine. That tame, sleepy warmth.
Give me storm clouds, gath'ring like a  coven
On the horrizon, clothed in their best black
Cocktail dresses, throwing amphibious
Ingredients with abandon into
A cauldron until something starts to boil.
I don't want sunshine. I want witching weather.

Day 30

Day 30. Here we are folks. See you again soon.  This poem is clumsy but it was important to me that I wrote it. Today's mood: https://youtu.be/RIZdjT1472Y

For Taeer

When I'm with you

My favorite thing is

To curl up in a ball in your sternum. 

Wrap the warmth of your beating heart

Around my shoulders and

Let your steady voice rock me to sleep.

Sometimes you aren't enough.

I couldn't make a bobsled team with me and you

Couldn't fill the spots on a pool tournament roster

But together we could play a hell of a game of bridge

Together we pedal a tandem like champs

I would like you to take me apart piece by piece

I would like you to build a Lincoln log cabin from my ribs

I would like you to devour my words like you've been fasting and I'm the first meal you've come across.

I would like you to tell me you love me in the same well worn words you've told me

one hundred, one thousand times before.

Just so I can say it back.

Day 29

Second to last day. Today's mood: https://youtu.be/JRWox-i6aAk

"Blue jeans, white shirt/ Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn"-- Blue Jeans by Lana Del Rey

"Lana leaves a trail of flopping tongues. She picks one up, autographs it, throws it over her shoulder and walks to our gate."--Lana Del Rey Walks Through Airport Security Megan Falley

One foot presses against the ground, made anxious by the close proximity of her skin. The other lauches into her next step and the collective silence of the room wraps itself around her bare shoulders. The ground behind where she has walked looks darker, less complete without her.

Every time her eyelashes brush against the skin of her cheeks every nerve in every body in the room stands to attention in a militant declaration of loyalty. Her eyes are the atmosphere holding us to this earth, pushing down on our shoulders with pounds of pressure. Her eyes are the force of universal entropy, pulling every cell apart from every other cell into countless spinning pieces.

Every time she takes a step I want to capture that motion in a scent and breath it in every night before I go to sleep. Every time she takes a step I am sure I believe in god. Every time she takes a step I want to get her name tattooed in a universe on my skin. I know the universe will never capture the vastness of her.