“Stay present,” 

He advises.


“I don’t want
you split between
two places.”

I want to laugh

You see,
you’ve been with
me, in the
mountains of
West Virginia.

Along the shores
of the
Great Lakes.

I saw you in
the mouth of
Mammoth Cave.

When the fireworks
reflected in
the D.C. waters.

I haven’t left
your hometown
in weeks.

“I’ll do my best,”

I assure him.

I’ve been trying
to untangle my
wrestle them into
one place

For over a year.


A distressing event
a disruption

A disconnection
from the experience
of self,
of others.

How can one
learn to settle
in a body
that's proven
in a world in which
we so desperately
seek certainty.


I stay busy
so I don’t think of 
your empty touches,
your silence.

I fill my time
to learn what
healthy means.

There are some mornings
I turn off my alarm
because I can’t
sustain the busyness.

I succumb to thoughts of you
and I think of how to
be busy again.


Our love was intense
selfish, at best.

I was the blank page you needed.
You were the clay I molded.

When we grew
into our own skin
my dear,
we woke
and couldn’t recognize the other.

You didn’t like
what I wrote.
I didn’t understand your form.


I want to reach you in your language. 
I want to be the words I want to hear,
feel your tongue as you
speak them out loud.

I want to feel who you are
when you shine in the sun,
playing your music,
thinking of the ones you love most.