It's as if we had our wings clipped from the start. Or maybe we've always had the possibility of flight under our wings, but we've never believed it. Either way, your words have never been stuck to the ground. You've made sure that they catch the wind and tuck their landing gear. Luckily we think the same; my words can do nothing but lazily roll along to places they don't belong.

I could only hope that one day you'll face me and allow your words to float instead of fly for once. And maybe I'll tell you that your wings are beautiful and unscathed and you'll tell me that you like the feeling of concrete under your toes.

I slid a note under your door to mention my gratitude.

I told you not to cry. I whispered it to you in the least lethal voice I could muster, but maybe that was still too rusty for you. It's not that big of a deal. I'll just remember to talk with my hands next time.

- - -

Her name wasn't a boy's name. "Tyler" was a boy's name, and although she was named Tyler, her name was not a boy's name. People didn't seem to comprehend this, which is why she removed them from the world.

The positions and offices held were still there, though. The mayor, a stick branch, occasionally called together his strength to address the locals. Police officer bees were constantly on the lookout for trouble brewing, but were easily sidetracked by the songs of legacies.

It wasn't lonely in her world without cynicism. She fell in love with herself. A love affair of finger on finger and ankles to wrists. She could embrace herself and lose her circumstances in the way her heart beat against her palms.

She lived free from terms like "climate" and "critique" and "phosphorus", but she was not without enemy. An exotic dance with the the water's edge brought her jealous reflection out. Oceans and lakes are so insecure that they allow those who are not them to seek refuge in the waves. Tyler had only herself for she feared nothing but for others. The tides grew tired of a girl's curved, snowy radiance and eventually kept her reflection for itself.

But Tyler didn't care. Her name was not a boy's name and her face was not her entity. Nothing much mattered as long as she could continue to trace the lines of her calves with the backs of her hands.

Dana

"Leslie"
Artichoke
Mittens
Lukewarm
"Traditional"
Peppermint sticks
The animated instructions in plane seat pockets
Binoculars
Canvas
Rubbermaid containers
Breathing masks
"California"

20776

You bring the sky down to us who cannot reach. I heard you first in a nursery rhyme and imagined you only in the pages of the books on my shelf. But I've heard that angels only appear in the midst of devastation. I don't know what was more of a miracle- the fact that I was able to get back up, or that it was you who told me to apply ice. Either way, after I warmed my hands, I knew I was never leaving this home.

I was lucky enough to have you forgive my mistakes. I made a lot of them, and even when the concrete statues of home followed the wind to other places, you made sure there was a key under the mat. And you always made sure it worked first. You've always looked out for me. You've always looked out for everyone.

There were times when I thought you had chosen others over me, but you were simply teaching me to want myself. At least, that's what I imagined it's come down to. I've caused you to lower your voice upon times, but no bricks could have ever hit harder. You do serve candied apples with your razors, though, and maybe that's what saves us all. Or maybe it's the fact that, when I have dreams about falling, I'm always hoping I land at your place.

Or maybe, even still, it's that the gravel driveway is the softest bed I've ever known and the wind carries the sent of imaginary pineapples instead of chaos. You can't control the weather, but you do the best to control our futures. Thank goodness someone is trying, because it's obvious that we aren't. But, believe me, you make it aware that we can't keep this up forever.

It's a happy place we're in now. I feel like my smiles fit me and our silences are result of contemplation, not lack of words. Though I guess you and I never found ourselves short of voice. Whatever we've found that has brought us here, whatever our titles are in textbooks- I'm glad you wrote me down directions.

And I've always known that you were smiling whenever you walked away from us.

Morning Rider

There are bubbles on your toes: they keep you afloat in the most hazardous of situations. Sometimes they burst, but one can only hope they still save your back from fighting with the ground. That cheeky smile you wear, full of grit and broken wind. You rock it for the ride. A face who has seen too much, with skin like the sand at the shoreline; it greets the day break with each rising. What amazing courage it takes to jump on three each time with a 'Thank you'.

We wear no new shoes. That just wouldn't be fitting. Nothing about us is juvenile or inadequate or varnished or clumsy. We may not be glistening, but we're sure not damaged. We're elegant in only a way tired eyes can be. I'm a bit dusty and you're a tad smudged.

But man, I love the way you want me.

Seven Year Old Prophet

Three O'clock in the morning and my eyelids are fluttering again. Light from the T.V. dances on my eyelashes and makes my eyes water from time to time. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, my skin begins to crawl from simple contact of the couch. Lucky, because then I know it's not a dream. At least, I hope it's not a dream again.

I would rather wake up alone for the rest of forever than to be awakened by that touch again. Maybe that's why I won't let you close the door all the way. At least, that's what all the therapists have said. I'll admit, I don't know myself, so I can't really say they're wrong.

Oh god, but his breath. I've never felt anything more like acid. When he said my name, I vomited a little. I couldn't help it. Remind me to grow up a bit more, and take those personalized letters off the wall. I'd rather just forget I've even been identified.

I'm shy. I think I've always been that way. Thinking that I chose my demeanor rather than it being the reaction to "trauma" seems to settle my stomach. But I'm not scared to admit that I am scared. I shrink away at your touch, and I probably always will. I lock the doors at irrational times and avoid the closet for reasons I'm not ready to say.

And it will probably always be like this. And either we'll learn to deal with it and things will be OK, or you will grow tired of having to save my name from drowning and writing your name on your fingertips. You'll walk out the door, but reassure me that you're locking it behind you. I'll find myself watching Law and Order: SVU without another and fixing a smoothie for one. And that's OK. I just hope that it doesn't come to a day in which I'm longing for his touch again.