& the lighthouse screamed back

stray dogs at your porch make the best monsters—
only hungry when they've lost enough of themselves to beg.
inside, someone with your face but not your heart
reloads a gun, dreams of a hunt where it doesn't kill you
to make something else bleed. some creatures are only beautiful
when pinned between your hounds and the coast, but i don't die
for free, not anymore, though you're wishing for that too.
somewhere around here, there's a version of events
where i manage to reconcile the memory of a warm shelter
with the dark now hovering behind your window: if i ever find it
i'll crawl in and sleep through the winter there, maybe even
survive the first bullet this time around. what's february like
when the gun stays shelved? what's the sound you'd miss the most
if the howl never dies out? i still want to limp back to your house
when the streetlights flicker on. the one night i did, i showed up
with the same wound as you by accident. you opened the door, said
your hot blood means nothing here, which is how i found out
that i still have any. there was no plan for you, you see.
i would only earn those if i wasn't designed to starve.

stray dogs at your porch make the best monsters—
only hungry when they've lost enough of themselves to beg.

*chef's kiss* that's just perfect.

you just missed it, darling. the sunshine, i mean.
it called me by a name i haven't heard in months,
almost correctly, and i couldn't help but wonder
if i stole the title from you. i'm paying for it now,
scrubbing the warmth off my skin, rewriting the forecast
into one that doesn't take pity on me. everywhere i go
it seems i'm always a week too early for the wildflowers.
the newspapers would agree: they're rattling off
all the summers i'll never see in their obituaries.

yesterday i remembered reaching for something
but not holding it: i woke up with the knowledge
of ten new ways to drown. i'm thinking of going back
to the ocean so i can ask it to teach me how to hunger
and how to do it right this time. you were a natural,
which is a kind way of saying you were too good at it.
i don't know if i can follow you on the path you took,
which is a coward's way of saying i can't hold my head
high enough above those waters. i know such details
were lost on you— tomorrow night i'll dream of you
dragging me down, and i'll regret not allowing it.

today, though, the clouds fight for space on the horizon
to become mountains through a fool's eyes. all i can think of
is a traveler standing atop them, far enough for peace at last.

you taught me a lot that winter, it turns out,
mostly about breaking mirrors and tidal patterns
and how everything washes up eventually.
it's not that everything floats, you insisted,
which you were determined to prove true.
you followed through, but i remember it better
as a lesson in stubbornness and unwavering beliefs
of enough force to draw even the moon back to life.
that's why when you hold your ear to a shell
you trick yourself into hearing the waves.
that's why the laughter at the front door
seeps further into the walls every night.

your home state’s on fire again: we showed up
to bear witness to your favorite hillside, still burning
even as it spills into the desperate waves below.
this is not a new story. you mourned it months early,
so your eyes stay dry of saltwater, searching the seagrass
for something worth staying for out there. i do not ask
for the same kind of consideration. this is not a new story.

i am developing the good habit of also being alive
when i wake up most mornings. it's easiest on days when
i forget i'm closer to the cliffside than i am to you.
i am reminded i did not leave my heart behind so much
as i lost my lungs, some number of borders ago:

wishing for the poison of the smoke to fill a breath
i find i cannot take, i settle on sinking instead.

one day, i'll swim back to the shore alone.
before then, i'll carry the terrible honor of reenacting
both the body lying at the bottom of the river
and the weary soul trying to drag it back out.
someone will throw out the words dearly missed
and they'll streak past their target, to be returned
by tomorrow's tide, water-damaged beyond rescue.
another will claim there were no warning signs,
or if there had been, the scavengers found them first.
all of them will try to sweeten the emergency,
as if we weren't determined to be cautionary tales,
goodbyes and guts long ago spilled, all the vultures
soaring home to empty nests like it makes a difference.
you know, the highway is hugging the coast in anticipation
like it can't stand to watch this any more than i must.
it's already happened, it's just slipping into your rearview,
it's not too late to brake for what looms on the road ahead
except you won't. there are so many ways to leave it all behind
and only one where you choose it without waiting for me.