Maybe love is in New York City, already asleep, and you are in California, Australia, wide awake.
Maybe love is always in the wrong time zone, maybe love is not ready for you.
Maybe you are not ready for love.
Maybe love just isn’t the marrying type.
Maybe the next time you see love is twenty years after the divorce, love is older now, but just as beautiful as you remembered.
Maybe love is only there for a month.
Maybe love is there for every firework, every birthday party, every hospital visit.
Maybe love stays- maybe love can’t.
Maybe love shouldn’t.
I’m learning that home really is where the heart is, and it’s hard to articulate that spot when you’ve fallen in love with so many different people places and things. I fell in love with the sound of my own two feet walking next to hers, I felt home in every city I ever loved her in, but you can’t make a home out of something with wings where its roots should be and then expect it not to go anywhere, which is to say the closest thing I have to name myself a home anymore is my own condemned body.
excerpts from poems I never should have written #32
My boyfriend and I were so bored last night we watched Slam City. Up until this point we were kind of meh about it, then this happened, and we just sat in silence for 10 minutes wondering what the hell we just saw.