Observations:

Line the top lid.

Roll the cuffs once to the wrist, above the bone.

Top knot's a knot, more for annoyance than effort.

Hand towels don't stay on the hook.

Pillows littered, catching falling sighs.

Hips aren't as tall as shoulders, even on the side.

Satin lines on the nightstand, pen in the pages, saying, "be back soon."

Before the sunset between the blinds, caught in a room that won't notice it.

Ticking on the sill, time the light.

Soft angles and a curl falling by the jawline.

Pretend you don't mind silence.

Pretend you're the stillness.

Surrounded.

Soundless.

Soundless.

soundless


--Erin

I always got participant ribbons.

Sometimes I want someone to be there to tell me why the spacebar is more worn out than the letters in "please"

and sometimes I want to ask love for its first name, because "in," "of," "for," and "with" are too simple to preface the thing I've never tried to search for.

My eyes are too restless to ask all the questions that matter, 

and before they can leave my lips they just slide back between my teeth and past my tongue and hide in my throat.

Wherefore art thou Romeo and wherefore art thou Juliet and wherefore art thou Erin
and it is the east and Juliet is the sun
But I haven't needed anyone to be the sun since I discovered why I liked the moon so much.

The sun is too busy.
It has to deal with hope and prayers and love.
It watches for hours and hours and everyone goes to see it.

The moon saves time for me, because I'm awake after the hope goes to bed.
It listens to my prayers and it knows why I can't let the questions past my lips and it knows why I'm asking in the first place.
It thinks more about the 3 a.m. lovers than the noontime dates
and it thinks more about the sad lips than the happy ones.

The moon, it sees them,
the tears hiding in your bedsheets and under your pillow,
and it wipes them away with a Mona Lisa smile.
Don't speak or you'll ruin it.

The moon sees with old eyes,
used to the desperation of the stars
and the things that can only be whispered when parents are asleep,

and I love it.

I love the yellow white glow,
the reflected light,
the face that I've never been able to see.

It knows why I look for Orion instead of the Big Dipper
and it knows why I'm disappointed when I find it.

The moon would tell me what love goes by, but it sees I want to find out on my own.
It would tell me whose name is more threadbare than the spacebar,
but it knows me too well.

It knows where I keep my nickels and it knows what shade of lipstick I wear
and it knows which skirts I wear for which occasions
and it knows why I wish I had more skirts for more occasions.

The moon breathes with the knowledge that it isn't warmth,
but the insomniacs love the light too much to care.

The light that turns gold into silver,
quiets the diamonds,
and relishes in pale skin and open-mouthed smiles.

The moon bleeds second place,
and maybe that explains my love.

The sun always got the gold.
Gold medals for the bright light.
Silver for the mirror in the sky.

I'd say that's a bad thing,
but it doesn't hurt to look at the moon.


--Erin

Flora

I want you to give me flowers, but my sharp tongue makes the daisies clutch their pearls and the roses call me cynical.

I'd ask for carnations and orchids, but the former think I'm too excessive and the latter have always needed more than I could give them.

The succulents say I try too hard and the lilies tell me I wear too much perfume.

Baby's breath hasn't yet convinced me to be delicate and the tulips never asked for the broken.

I want you to give me the flowers that have never claimed me, but they rarely bloom at night and I'm awake for the witching hour.

I'm calling five AM bedtime and I'm calling you love, but you'll probably never know either of those things because I make up for the lack of sleep in the afternoons I don't see you and I can't really make up for the lack of love, but I guess that's what this cracking heart is for.

I know that I can ask for you until I'm out of nickels, but a wishing well is nothing more than an empty promise and in the moonlight you can see through its lies. The running water never understood why it couldn't wash away sin. 

You know that I've never kissed a boy when it mattered, but I want to kiss you just to prove that it still can because even stardust inhales when it looks into your eyes.

I don't really know what to do, though, and I don't really know how to tell you that I could be better with you than her because I don't even know who she is, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't know you as well as I do and you probably don't know her as well as you know me.

Don't let that stop you, though.

Buy her some flowers and tell her you love her. I've never been sure if they would feel more alive on the branch or in your hands.

I'd ask your opinion, but sometimes I question the validity of my own tongue and you'll never know that the world looks better in the rear view mirror than in profile because I'll never have the conviction to leave it.

I'll never have the conviction to leave you.

--Erin

I can't see the sky tonight.

I'd be a star if you held my hand.

The kind that burns like your heart

and especially the kind that twinkles.

That's how they like to describe eyes,

but mine are usually called bright

because low light never stopped me from laughing 

and high looks never stopped me from crying.

Lace your fingers between mine and we can walk in a galaxy 

and make promises to the small, small people who smile at the sky.

They smile even after they've given up Love

because they smile at her sister.

They tell me it's because

Hope said "always"

when Love said "maybe"

and I guess that's why Love pulls away

while Hope holds tight.

Her hands are softer, anyway.

--Erin