what I want.

untitled, or 109

Remember that time we rode the bus hand, in hand, in hand,
it was the last time we would ever see one another in the same way.
We rode that bus from house to house waiting for the one with enough room
for life and school and space; yet, we found no such place to call our own.
We journeyed across thresholds, our minds on the precipice of wonder,
knowing fully that with each door opened, our thoughts would never been the same.
Your hands were larger than mine, sweatier too. But your eyes held
the same flashing wonder that I knew mine projected. It was the roaming
in your heart I did not see, the wonderlust that burned and smoldered in the dark depths,
sending synapses through your brain.

Love is all I am

shit-howdy sunshine, sit yourself down.

Isn't it funny that I don't feel comfortable
being almost nearly naked in my own house?
It's not that I don't feel comfortable in my own skin.
It's just that the windows are open.

It's not the fact the neighbors can see,
if they want to look, let them.
Nor is it the sound of the cars in the road outside,
those sounds that I used to run from when I was little.
It's just that the windows are open.

The windows are open and they're letting in the wind,
but I don't mind the wind either. The light's coming
in over the window sills, warming the floor boards,
but the windows are open.
And I can't breathe.