Are you eight hours behind, or ahead?
Either way I shouldn’t be awake 
and you should, but 
as the nights draw in and the tree goes up
I want a friend. For a while it was stormy
and fast, it was dangerous
but then it was home. It was ukulele
and songs all over the house
it was television and coffee
it was projects and writing and
my city seemed beautiful – for a while
I rediscovered it and I learned with you that
I always fell for the foreign, for the different
and I stayed here while you were on a train
or a plane, or a coach – and I pretended
that you would come home. 

You never came home

I know that I am harsh and I am shallow – 
I am unfair and I am dismissive and 
you said so yourself, in not so many words
I know that you read this sometimes
and you are such a romantic
but my only expression is behind layers
of poetry and complexities and sarcasm
I know you will read this, eight hours
forward or back. I know I will see you
on your coast or mine, on pebbles or sand
but for the times I think I might not
I have never been less hidden

Than when you never came home

I blushed a little when you said you 
thought I could write, it was unbelievable
you found me interesting and new
and while I always find it hard to travel
you make it seem harder to stay put
it’s this time of year, I suppose, 
that makes me miss home. I built
a house inside you and I never said sorry
but I am. My city is colder and I’m a year older
than when we sat by the gardens
that were so ugly before. We found a way to
get around cultural clashes and differences
our matching personalities that fit together
after a little effort and time. I never told you,
because I can’t without line breaks and prose
and the poetry. 

– For Kasey.


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