Secondhand

I felt what I felt for myself, second
and it felt minute in comparison
What you felt for me felt (most importantly)
firsthand and struck itself faster than mine
as if importance were a matter of time and not
what seems more wise

I wished for myself, second
and for you I wished first against wind,
down it went into nothingness because a wish
spent perpetuating itself
means little more than its success

I bettered myself for you
but what is better when what you're comparing it to
is a year or more's worth of ignoring me gently
so why is better to you, more than better for me?



I'll know what it feels like to wear clean sheets
and no longer will I be secondhand to myself.

and thus

love unjustified by any action or thought, indescribable excruciating anticipation for nothing, a train meant to arrive late at no specific hour on a cold overcast day, walk across the street sit at an empty booth and stare at the condensation dripping down the sides of a glass cup, run left index finger down its side, watch it shiver and continue in a slow crawl over the trenches of your digits.
love in pain, in dusty closets sitting down cross-legged with clothes like hovering clouds over burst of inconceivable passion after burst of unnecessary vulgarities, loops in the carpet strung up by stepping and stepping hard. Pushing forward over and over strong enough to move furniture slight enough for no one to notice when they arrive from work.
love in long hours, stretched out balloon skin tight over the lampshades, desktops, couches, opening the bulbs of flowers, the white arms of 15 petals escaping sleep in yawns of hundreds at noon.
because frankly
love is insensitively rich, decadent in ignorance, deliciously blind and vapid
sitting on a cold hard plate next to fingers and silverware, virgin white cloth napkins stained with maroon and age, chocolate cake
and love is
gone
love is always gone before you ever feel its landing on your silver cheek, hardened by the "what it could have beens" and more
and love is played
long notes on a cello, marred by agitating silence, echoed only louder in a small empty room, you and I and love being played solemnly sworn together by loneliness
settles
in the dust, I am
what love is and what isn't, couldn't be, and never will.

and love

love the days the waves the short escapes into small apartment caves. Love the multicolored socks and multicolored skin, the changes in between, within. Love the short small steps he takes, the skipping, prancing, jumps, the chocking during jazzy songs, the lumps. And love and love and love, the books, the surprises into short stories, reprises, the original versions of songs in the shower. The customers with jokes that they seem to have practiced all day just to tell you. The overcast, the sunny, the rain. The whisps of mist in between the trees on weathered trails. Love the 3hr long phone conversations, the 30 min walks, the 22 second burts of chatter. The sleeping, the awakening, the curls, the yawns, the pleasant smiles. The hammock, the swinging, the holding of moments. The honest to goodness truth, the vacuums when the store closes, the father and his quirky daughter. The free, the costly, the worth it. The tele in the breakroom, the song that appears on shuffle. The being too poor for an apple, the being rich but only in savings. The unfinished work piece, the piano, the practice, the finish, the forgotten notes. The trying, the failing, the trying a second time and rocking it. The being asked questions, the what could be flirting and may possibly not be. The memorization of facts and repetitioned and conditionned. The cleanliness of one side, but dirty on the other. The thank yous and I'm sorries, and feeling the same way about both of them. The rants and laughs. The dreaming and retelling and recalling it all later. The bread with raisins, pizza with pineapple, chips with salsa, water with vitamins. The only knowing Scorpio, lyra, and polaris. The baggy pants that used to belong to my grandpa and fit me. The hum of a box fan. The light of the bathroom, the soft murmur of neighbors, the scent of baby lotion. That just brushed clean feeling, that just ate something deliciously awesome feeling, that I'm poor but happier than ever feeling. Knowing your parents are healthy, that your roommates are sleeping, that you're healthy and about to be sleeping. The not needing anything. The room being cold and the outside being hot but also being warm under the covers. The kitchen being clean, the carpet being soft, the couch being splendid for writing a blog. The being interrupted by a phone call that changes everything. The being friends again, the knowing that this is where things really do get better and everyone was right to say so. The being simply happier. The love and love and love for all of this and mostly loving how much you love.