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Message from Writer

We can surprise ourselves.

halfway, wherever you are

April 19, 2021


half an hour, half a bite, half a life,
sometimes I feel half full of lies.

oh, i didn't tell you that before?

i guess there’s a lot of things i haven’t told you of the late.

secrets i haven’t breathed into your ever listening ears,
or exhaled into your coconut lotion hands
that always catch the words in my tears

did you know that when I yawn I fall into the vacuum behind my ears
where magicians find their pennies, and on the good days,

the fan is silent tonight.
it is every night.

and yet as I thrum with exhaustion,
I anticipate a reaction.

Perhaps it's the way the dark stares at me,
the way you melt me until I drip into a purple crayon again--

The moon is framed by my window tonight,
in the summer lighted on by streetlights.

Harold draws a picnic of pies, and I draw your outline right next to mine.

Everything is happening right now, nothing is happening at this moment.
I shake, eyelashes flutter, until I am soothed by the sounds of Mom's late night snack.

the breeze blows through the holes in my sweater
and I wish you were here to fill them, 

scraping pots, you tell me I'd still be cold anyway.

let us live together, apart, for just a second longer
just a moment, I swear

rushing water, you drag me from my dramatic waterfalls and deposit me on the bed.

come back, stay back, stay here

clanking cupboards, you close the door and promise that I'll find you.
I cover my eyes and count to twenty, but you still haven't come.

Someday, you smile.

and then I remembered you're supposed to be happier up there,
guzzling the expanse of sunlit tea that is the sky.

it must be nice wherever you are, for you to like it so much.
do you have a good book to read, while you wait for me?

I’d ask you to come out, come out,
wherever you are,

but you’d be a smart Alec and tell me you’re already here,
in some nook with a flashlight, living another life in a stack of pages.

anyway, I've got to go to bed now. I've collected far too many quarters.

I'll leave the half-eaten moon on my window for you,
and toss half a fountain of change,

light a poem on fire, let the incense rise.
and half asleep, sculpt you from the smoke,
while you, with a plastic butter knife,

split our pining 50/50.
minor changes... that I decided to do after I recorded. I know, very smart. I probably have to re-record anyway, so oh well.

if anyone has any tips on spoken word poetry (especially with what to do with your hands!) it would be greatly appreciated :)

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  • Ava Marie

    This is amazing!! the timing in your recording was perfect. I don't think that you need to move your hands anymore than you did

    21 days ago
  • Yellow Sweater

    I am in love with this poem. Even more so after hearing you read it. I'm left with the kind of perfection that lingers after the world is gently torn apart.

    22 days ago