I didn’t mean
to be the strongman in your traveling circus,
but the way your eyes lit up:
carnival-style,
spun me up in a web of joy.
You used to tell me that cowboys still exist
and I
wanted so badly to believe you but
I have too much going on
to fantasize
about old-west dreams.
You cut the sleeves off every
t-shirt you own.
I yell at you every single time.
It’s become a joke of ours.
When it snows
you open your mouth
to try and catch the snowflakes.
I bite your tongue
to keep you from screaming.
You scream all the time
and I can’t understand why.
It’s hard these days to make new friends,
but two years,
three weeks
and five days
has taught me that I
am the ocean
and you are the shore,
if only in this poem.
Knives in the Nightclub 