Over the course of April  I have not been writing a new poem every day, but i do have a new poem that i''ve worked on almost every day. My work lacks something to be desired on the page- mostly due to my awful grammar and lack of understanding of the way poetry should be structured. but i think you can get the idea. It's not for one person but an amalgam of men who have left em feeling a little more like a halfway house than a home.


Your hand found mine on the cold underside of the pillow;
the dark side of the moon,
the impenetrable fortress of the bed that we shared together,
a place where hands came to commune away from prying eyes
and judging bodies.

It was there that I first read the brail of your fingerprints
and wondered what it was like to speak to God through your fingertips.
So, translate for me-
ask Him where I am going, if you will be there upon my arrival.

Remembering rumbling windy city bus rides
and holding yours so close
And someone telling me of Chicago burning.
I am certain-
I would set fire to the city again to stay feeling this way,
a shadow of ash on your face,
a spark on your inner thigh.
You have set this chest on fire
so ask God what He thinks of arsonists.
I have felt your lips on my spine
a small reminder it exists.
Maybe we can straighten it out together.
Please, make me brave again.
Because I am all hips and water slide thighs
and you are all wrists and veins riverbed dry.
All I've ever wanted is to cure your drought.

A quiet hesitance follows you everywhere you go.
It hung above your head in the bedroom when you said:
I have spent too long gutting myself from the outside in
and I am uncertain I can cut another girl from my ribs
so if we do this-
I'm gone.

so we didn't.

But that is when your eyes said something your lips did betray.
See, you never had any intentions to stay.
See, she was where you were headed and I was just some truck stop along the way.
Somewhere to close your eyes, have a bathroom break
Tell me-
When will I become a destination?
Somewhere to settle down, hang your hat, raise your kids.'

When will you stop carving Megan's face into the skin of apples you will never eat?
Gold panning in her chest for remenants of your heart in the rubble?
Boy- 
don't you know you already have mine in your hand?

You-
You glutton for sympathy.
Translate for me-
ask God what happens to the hands of martyrs
cause no one can read your love lines through the blood.
So now I write you love letters,
store them on the cool underside of the pillow,
praying one day you will read them like mothers' hidden lunch box notes.
The cotton lays heavy on top of them
like the reality that you would rather be haunted by her love,
than possessed by mine.

Bearface,
sometimes when i miss you,
I catch myself rubbing my fingers together
I remember reading your bible psalm hands 
full of roadmaps to places we were never going to go together

Translate for me.
How do I get back to the dark side of the moon?
Will you be there upon my arrival?