Eventually I will master the art of sleep,

turning off my spinning mind at will,

dropping into dreamworld the minute my head

hits the pillow, and staying there until a full

eight hours have passed, waking refreshed,

rested, recharged.

Or if not, eventually, at least, this streak

of insomnia will break,

and I’ll enjoy one morning without grit in my

skull and acid behind my eye sockets.

It may not be tomorrow, but I have faith

that it will happen eventually.

[scs_alt]

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They never tell you that

what feels like happiness

when you’re young and foolish

is a pale imitation of the kind

you find later,

when you’ve grown into yourself,

when you’ve sloughed off cool

and cozied up with vulnerable,

when you’ve accepted that your life

will never look like TV

and that this, surprisingly,

is not just ok, but good,

when you’ve finally wrapped your arms

around the you that is

and waved goodbye

to the you you’d expected

[scs_alt]

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The way you make me lose track of time,

loose from any attachment point,

like an astronaut floating in a capsule.

The way you swell my heart,

so it floats, pounding like a balloon,

up past the atmosphere,

perhaps on date for tea with the astronaut.

The way you widen my eyes and quicken my breath,

put me on the verge of a smile,

like a child at the edge of a high dive,

the thrilling moment before the leap.

It is this.

It is this.

It is this.

[scs_alt]

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Remember when part of the fun of having a pen pal

was the giddy, itchy anticipation of  waiting for their reply?

The interminable frustration of having to wait,

like waiting for Christmas, or you birthday.

Would an envelope be in today’s mail?

Or today’s? Or today’s?

Then — oh joy! — the feel of the smooth paper in your hands.

Sensing their spirit in the shape of their letters, the choice of stamp.

The sound of tearing open the flap.

[scs_alt]

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My parents just shook their heads

when I walked out the door wearing dad’s old, black raincoat,

or his letterman jacket, with the moth-eaten cuffs.

They were so old and uncool, they just didn’t understand.

Now I look at jeans belted below the glutes,

or bare midriffs in the middle of winter,

and it’s my head that’s shaking.

What I know now that I didn’t know then

is that thankfully, being cool loses its shine with time.

Now I’d rather just be me.

[scs_alt]

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