She practiced a sort of manic, extrovertive, non-theistic, panenhenic mysticism. It was frustrating and hilarious 

You'd be struggling with some dire situation or moral dilemma, and then she'd appear out of nowhere, holding out a heavy ceramic plate with a huge chunk of honeycomb for your morning tea, or a slice of quiche delicately wrapped in waxed paper origami, beautiful and needlessly elaborate. 

Conversation would come easily, until she said some odd phrase that completely caught you off-guard because it was the answer to a question you hadn't thought to ask 

And it would be the solution to what had been vexing your soul when you had first put the kettle on for tea, or your stomach had begun to growl.  

She was frustrating in the way it might feel if you somehow were to suddenly realize you were just a character in someone else's funny story. Playing your part, only existing during the telling, fading away with the laughter. 

Which is ridiculous, because of course you're real; you're right here reading/writing this. 

Still, to know that the answers existed, and that someone could reach them, but that someone wasn't you....

Frustrating and hilarious. 

But damn that's good quiche. 

Crooked Names

I've been battling witches all night. 

Mostly rap battles; some breakdance fighting. A little Sudoku. 

They could just use their magics, of course, and destroy me in a thousand different ways. 

That doesn't interest them. We're not really even enemies. They're just bored, and awake. And so am I. 

They can fly, but I've never seen it. They're never in a hurry. They're not immortal, I don't think, and they live longer than us, but not that much longer. They move through time differently, it seems. Sometimes, (lots of times,) they'll answer a question before I even ask it. Like, days before. I'll ask them something, and they'll turn to me with their large yellow eyes, (flecked with silver,) and do that unsettling blink they can do (where the lower eyelid moves from the bottom up, like a chicken) and I'll flip though my notepad of all their puzzling sayings, until I find one that fits. 

There's usually one that fits, and I check it off and add a number from 1 to 10, a score of how certain I am. Sometimes more than one fits; those I draw a little star next to. 

They are beautiful, in their way. Their proportions are subtly different, and not fixed. Limbs shorten and lengthen with the breeze. They will stand ramrod-straight when alert, or scoliosis-slither like a sidewinder when annoyed., 

It's unsettling. Still, it's like any other body language. They remind me more of exotic animals that people think they can keep as pets.

They're not tame; they're not afraid of you; and they might not even look you. 

You're safe because you're not their preferred prey. 

And they're ruthless when we play Sudoku. I actually don't even know how to play, but I'm afraid to ask so I just put with random numbers. 

It amuses them to no end; sometimes games end with them convulsing work laughter, like little bells, their arms and legs becoming rubbery and bending until they collapse into tinkling piles. 

Sometimes they are solemn. 

I think I may be some kind of oracle to them, when I attempt to play. 

I'll have to ask. Or maybe they've already told me. I'll have to check my notepad. 

But it's late, and they want to play again. 

pocket universe

my job is to be your pocket universe 

as you told me one mellow strange evening

to keep and tend all your stars and planets 

And keep track

of all the constellations you invented 

and all the names you gave me 

that have never left your mouth

And your vast collection of books and music

Two sections compete constantly to be the largest:

Your Favorite Books

and

Perfect Last Songs 

Every ending

"If this is an ending, it's a better one," I'd said on the last day I saw you. 

If we'd left it there, maybe it would have been. 

But I don't think so. 

"Endings are foretold by beginnings," I've said several times

To no one

To hear how it sounds when it lives in the air

It sounds profound

Which is why I mistrust it. 

Sometimes a story takes on a life of its own.

And we have to decide to persist 

Or rather, insist,

That this is not Our last page. 

pain goes somewhere

Surely it goes somewhere

playlist

I made a playlist for when you end it

Wean you off me like a drug

Our suns will set in separate valleys

And we'll pretend it's just begun 

You let me go, once, when I asked you

Now we're even

Carouse

I was not prepared for the loss of you. It's been 48 hours without your voice in my head. I'm happy you're on vacation and I'm also not happy without you. 

Fearful also, maybe. That a few days without me will feel like you're free of the shackles of my attention. 

Not that I don't think you love me. You do. It's the difficulty of the thing. The hyper-vigilance and the distance and needing your touch. 

I suppose we're both familiar with these things. It still feels different now. 

Before, I think, we didn't have clear boundaries. There was a lot of me hiding my feelings for you. It's a cruelty I've regretted.