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this time it’s different

I should be doing my homework,

I should be changing over my laundry.

I should be doing my homework.

But it’s a Friday night, and I am not waiting tables,

instead I am sitting in a barely lit room, writing another trail of words about you.

And I can’t stop thinking about yesterday.

Sitting on my bed, the afternoon overcast lighting us up with a drowsy need for romance.

We kissed for as long as our lips would let us.

You were like the safest, warmest, hammock.  

I should be doing my homework.

But I am stuck on last night. Crooked in a bath tub with you. I am vulnerable, you are happy. 

The bathroom is laced with smoke, and you look impossibly and vivaciously content. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of everything you are. Everything I am. A mosaic of five months into a firework of the most simple kind of utopia. 

And I can’t believe that you are mine. 

We are naked in the bath on a Thursday night, we don’t talk much, and there is no where else we could dream of being. I don’t remember ever being this serene. 

This is what love is like with you.

I should be doing my homework. 

This time it’s different. I could write it in all my poems, I could tell all my girlfriends, speaking too fast so that I don’t miss the story about the time you brought me flowers when I was sick.

"But this time it’s different."

The way you look at me scares me. There is so much love in those caramel eyes they could gulp me up. 

I am in awe that someone could love me enough to have it radiate from their eyeballs. 

I wonder if you can tell that the way my stomach folds during sex gives me the worst kind of anxiety. 

I am in awe that after more beers than I’d probably like to know, you sway towards me with such adoration that I feel like my heart might burst out of my throat for you. 

This time it’s different. 

I am in awe that we are drunk on a Monday. My back is in your chest. We are not at our type of place and your arms laced around my ribcage feel like the womb. Your beard tastes like whiskey. You tell me you want to be with me for as long as we are this happy. You tell me you want to see the world with me. I believe you. 

This time it’s different. 

My kitchen feels cold every morning that we are not deciding how to make our eggs. 

Thank you for walking the dog last night.

This time it’s so different. 




Happy Brit.

Happy Brit.




This is a poem I wrote over a year ago that I found tucked away in my journal, I’m going to air it out.


The pattern of his sleeve, tiny squares

against the inside of my arm. My cheek, 

his cotton covered chest rising; falling.

Hand upon my hair, in the crook of my neck.

The lightest weight upon my ears, and

the sparks from the base of my spine to it’s peak.

A scattering of voices filter down the hall

Winding towards me, raising. Lilting, the 

laughter bounces through and off the walls.

I know they have awoken. Too loud for me to sleep,

so admit defeat and join the all-too-early harmonies

of clink and jabber.

Waves and waves before me, reach where the golden

surface of the earth I meth, smiling below the vivid,

electric lid of space. Sundried orange leaves, their green

fruits shelled. A private-public paradise of a naked body

beneath a cotton towel. 

Sinking into where I am more than I’ve ever felt. 


Oct. 13th, 2010