day thirty. - numbers.

i. 
you: “the odds of this match happening are astounding.” 

ii. 
i am seeing you again in 15 days.
that is 360 hours = 21,600 minutes = 1,296,000 seconds, 
and however many grains of sand through the hourglass 
until i feel your kisses on my collarbone again. 

iii. 
at any given time, we are
719.5 miles (1158 km) apart, 
12 hours by car, 
an hour and a half by air.

iv.
numbers only become drastic when they are broken down,
and i have no time to count on my fingers when i could be
holding your hand instead. 

v. 
i was wondering, when i started writing poetry again, 
if you would appear in every poem i wrote. 

one month later, you have shown up in 
twenty out of thirty poems. 

vi.
it is almost one year since the day you, 
a gentleman in black, spotted me, a lady in red, 
in a crowd, and took a chance. 

three months later you took my hand, 
and neither of us let go. 

vii.
me: “the odds don’t matter to us darling, we were meant to be.”

day twenty-nine. - currents.

on the night before i leave
you ask me (twice) if i am crying when i’m not,

and there is something poetic about it, 
like the leaving isn’t real if i don’t break down like all the times before.

some things are constant, but sometimes the tides of my comings and goings don’t drown me. 
still, i love that you are always on the lookout just in case i drift into the riptide.

day twenty-eight. - lover(s).

when i ask you how you slept, 
i’m really asking if you dreamed of me.

when i say you are my first, 
i really mean i want you to be my last. 

day twenty-seven. - dialogue.

today i dressed up as an elf
and held his hand, posed for photos. 
smiled, laughed, kissed. 

tonight i will fall asleep beside him, 
wake up beside him in the morning. 

all too often when i am with him 
i am already thinking about
when i am leaving, when he is leaving, 
when we will be together again.

and all too often all this thinking 
leaves me with tears in my eyes
and pain in my chest, 
and it is such a cliche to write about this, 

but maybe cliches only exist because 
a long time ago they were real, and felt so often, 
and were the only way what was felt in the heart
could be translated onto the tongue.

i am not always so good with words 
for all that i call myself a wordsmith.

i want to speak to him with my emotions, 
with my tears and my laughter, 
with our kisses and touches,

every time i say “i love you”, 
i’m speaking a novel of subtext.

tonight i will fall asleep beside him, 
wake up beside him in the morning. 

tomorrow i will dress up as an elf,
and hold his hand, 
and be happy. 

day twenty-six - roadtrip.

the wheels turn and 
the miles go by and
three hours disappear.

my hand 
on the back of your neck
your hand 
on my thigh. 

you tell me you don’t mind 
driving long distances anymore. 

day twenty-five. - pink.

tomorrow i will
wear a pink dress, and you will
hold me again.

day twenty-four. - losing my religion.

jesus sits down next to me at the airport,
and before he can ask me if i’m afraid of
flying or falling or failing,

i speak first: “what are you afraid of?”
he replies: “suffocation.”

"why do you think i walked on water?
the only ceiling high enough for me is the sky,
and i wanted to find sanctuary.

sanctuary - the most sacred part of a place of worship.

for the life of me i will never understand why
human beings seek it behind stone walls.”

day twenty-three. - clipped wings.

i.
imagine you are in an airport. you are the only person you can find. you drift from seat to seat at the boarding gate, you can’t sit still in the silence. the sky is grey, the planes are not moving on the tarmac. nothing is moving, except you. 
you seem to have misplaced your boarding pass. you think you’ve forgotten something important and realize it’s your luggage. the lights flickr, the emergency exit signs have gone dark, the door are bolted shut anyways. 
and there’s no one, no one, not one other human being around that you can ask for help.

ii.
imagine the same airport, but now crowded. filled to capacity. you sit on the edge of the last seat available, wanting to move, not wanting to enter the crowd of impatience and aggravation and noise. 
couples and families arguing, strangers yelling into cellphones or muttering to themselves, scowling at the grey sky. off-key music pours out of the speakers, drowning out the announcer calling everyone’s name but yours. the departures board continuously reads “flight delayed”, “flight canceled”. 
the tension centres itself along your spine. an announcement comes for you finally, you’ve missed the boarding call, your plane has left without you, and the panic rises. 
you can’t find your passport and realize you can’t remember what your own face looks like.

iii. 
you make it through security, hold onto your passport and boarding pass. 
get on a plane, take off.
you arrive in the wrong destination. 
no one speaks your language. 
your lover is not here. 

iv.
this would be my hell. 
waiting but never leaving. 
wanting to see you, but missing my connection. 

day twenty-two. - frustrations.

i always disappoint myself at night. 

one reason to be glad of the distance between us:
i would not be so perfect
if you witnessed my tantrums.

day twenty-one. - the failing artist.

this is a story of 
half-hearted lines:

the last time i wrote a song 
was autumn, 2011.

the last time i drew anything 
in my sketchbook
was february 14, 2013.

i haven’t touched my guitar
since my lesson
one week ago.

i only attempt to write novels
in november, all the other months
are just fragments of words,
unraveling after the final period.

(an aside: failing does not mean defeated.)