He sat in a chair 

with his phone upon his knee,

waiting desperately. 

It’s hard to predict how deeply you’ll ache for the things you lose. 

I’ve reached the light at the tunnel’s end. I am scraped and blue, but I am here. How dark and narrow and so full of pits it was. How winding and lonely. How filled with nails and wind it was. How the howling did claw my skin how the silence did feel like drowning how so stubbornly the light did burn like a needle in the center of my eye like some dull persistent reminder of just how lost I was.

I stand on my balcony and watch strangers tend a fire. The thick banana leaves frame them well and they are beautiful, their bodies bent over the small flames. They press against the glowing twigs and scraps of paper with thin metal sticks. They do not speak, but the bleat of the jungle hangs about them. It hums and so do they.

They stand close enough so that their elbows touch. They smile at each other, but mostly watch the fire. It is dark but I’m sure if they wanted to they could see me watching them but they do not look up. If they did, they would see me framed by doorway, framed by the blue glow of a computer screen.

They would see me small and see me lonely.

If they invited me to stand with them I think I’d cry for not knowing what to do.  

I am sick

with the wanting

of things.

Life is grand and weird

and I no longer fear it

like I used to.

When I think about the past I feel lonely. I feel lonely and small. I feel brittle, like a frozen corpse floating in space. I feel like a pinprick could send me to shatters. I feel like I want to grab my past self and shake him until his blue eyes turn white with knowing. I want to slap him and tell him to make things better. To smile at the people who smile at him and to love the people that love him and to let the light in but I know there is a sonic boom living in his chest and it deafens him. I know the winds howl and reach out for him, I know he lets them pull him lets them drag him into the pit where he will lose himself. I know he cries some nights but mostly just stares at the corners and coaxes the dust. I know he stares at his hands too and wishes they were bigger or that his arms were longer so he could hold himself up but he’s wickless and the wax is cold so nothing burns or thaws him.

The nights are long there and they are deep and sometimes I get lost there and when I think about how lost I can still feel after all this time it’s easy to feel lonely and so small.  

My blood

is cold and so like

the moon.

Of all the promised

seeds, so few cracked

and sprouting.

I have lost myself

too many times to the calls

of wayward things.