Visions of you leaving, they haunt me sometimes.
Not so much the leaving, as the coming back.
The inevitable clashing of moments, the entwining of the threads
when our nonparallel lives must cross again at some fateful point.
A year later, I can see you, I can see me, I can see our friends.
We run into each other unexpectedly, and there is a fleeting hesitation
on both sides of the spectrum.
A lifetime during which the past is relived in a liquid drop of a minute,
a single plop,
that sends the tiny ripples running.
We smile, it hasn’t hit us yet.
We make polite conversation, it hasn’t hit us yet.
I’m great, college is great. How are you?
Good…ya know. Senior year. Laughter.
It hasn’t hit us yet.
I muss my hair like you’ve seen me do so many times
and you keep talking, you were always good at making conversation.
Well…you look good.
Ha, thanks. So do you.
I guess I’ll see you around.
It hasn’t hit us yet.
I turn on my heel and scamper off, afraid to look back.
The door swings shut behind me like it did before.
I don’t know if you saw me go.
And it hits us.
Or me, I was felled in a blow to shame Achilles,
right behind the knees, a jab to the stomach, a kick in the jaw,
a fluttering of the heart, an overreaction of the tear glands.
It was the first time I’d seen you since that summer night,
and I don’t like the warm weather anymore.

I am torn back to the present by a word from you-
no, four words.
I love you baby.
And I look down, and I don’t know what to think, except
that I love you too, and now I’m so scared, and I don’t want
the warm weather to come.
I don’t want the days to grow longer, because
the stretched out sunsets only call for watercolor goodbyes
and neither of us are good at those.

This all happened in the mist of a second-
it washed upon me with the spray of a million tiny moments
of people who have gone through the same worry as me,
and look, how that worry has filled the oceans.
The worries of loves that float from themselves
into the rivers that all join together
and the worries become one worry, the worry of
being left, of
never knowing, of
never asking, of
always wishing, of
always praying, of
being alone, of
still loving
when you know
you shouldn’t keep your fingers curled around that memory.
It’s a piece of paper, an old photograph, a letter, a thought, a poem,
a fear.
And it crumples under the weight of your hand, you squeeze your soul shut
and toss the wrinkled memory into the water.
As it silently floats away, with the other misty moments,
you turn away and try to think of the silver beams of Now,
the shorter days when love is long,
the moon is high,
and we can sleep in the arms of the stars
far away from the worries of the oceans.


–just a poem I wrote, sometime last year I think. inspired by events going on in my life then; feel free to comment, I’m sorry if you find it sappy. there is definitely a story behind it. :]