Loneliness

When Loneliness visits

he sits down awhile,

I’ll offer him some tea

and perhaps I’ll enjoy the visit

because he always leaves me

better, braver

But he always stays longer than I plan

and I run out of things to give him – 

to distract him with

I’ve got songs for him, the sad ones

those make him go away

if the lyrics hit him softly and precisely

I’ve got poems for him to read

those satisfy him on occasion

if the words are just right

And when all that fails,

I’ve got people, people to introduce

people that scare him off

for days

But then – sometimes  

the songs, and poems, and people

aren’t enough

And he listens to Bright Eyes with me

and sings along

And he reads Sylvia Plath over my shoulder

and stays for every heavy word

He even accompanies me in crowded rooms

an invisible observer,

only whispering to me

like a ghost on my shoulder, in my ear

And I'm starting to think I'll befriend him,

even if the thought of him shakes me

Loneliness must be my friend  –

after all

if he is the one that always stays

I know him well

after all this time

and I'll have to be his friend for now

if I'm going to be happy.

Little Moving Picture

Last night I saw two shadows,

one slight and one steady

muffled by curtains,

painted in lazy lamplight, 

framed by bricks

a little moving picture

a post card for my secret self,

of what things could be

it could be me in the foggy glass

some version of me

that found you

and you could come to me

every evening

- and our shadows could dance,

and light up the window

again and again

our shadows would seem heavy

on cold nights

and thin in the summer

sometimes they won’t match

- mine will sag close to the sill

yours might seem fuzzy and far

but they will always meet

slip into each other in the end

every evening

in our little moving picture.

How it can be:

It can be awkward. 

It can be unsure and uncomfortable, 

as long as it's authentic. 

But I want it to be inevitable, 

from the moment we speak to each other 

- not see each other - 

because that's different. It can be infatuation. 

It can be lust at first; 

but not for appearances. 

Lust for the way I immediately need to talk to you. 

Lust for the way you laugh, a long time, over something I say. 

Lust for our ease - how easy it is for you to touch me 

- how electrifying it is to touch you back. 

That will be easy. It will always be easy, for us, physically 

- but at some point you will have to untangle me, 

and I am sorry you've got to do that. 

You will have to be brave and search the darkest corners of me 

- and I'll have to be brave and look inside you as well. 

I'll hope for some bruises to match my own, 

but I'll want to fix them, and if I cannot fix them I will love them. 

You will do the same and you will want me more 

when you know about my mistakes and my fears. 

You will give them new names so that they are no longer flaws. 

When I am not myself you will love me until I am again. 

And you will always find me 

because we have the same hiding places.

I have no secrets