hard, frozen over

whispers from snowflakes tell me

I'm softer than them

three more words.

I think the saddest word in the english language is

Almost.

We have so many words for sadness

Blue

Melancholy

Sorrowful

somber

Bitter

Weeping

Sorry

Dejected

heartbroken

Broken.

You can count them like stars until you fall asleep,

But almost is

Unfinished

Not quite

Just about

Anything.

Almost is what could have been.

What almost happened.

So close, and yet so far.

Almost is

a missed throw

Burnt toast

A flat note

Bottled tears

a candle blown out before you could pick up any more matches.

She almost lived her dream.

He almost didn’t break the lamp.

They almost had fun today.

He almost missed the train that crashed.

She almost got to the hospital in time.

I almost loved you.

I wonder if you will ever read this?

You don’t know who you are,

But I do. And you don’t know

Who I am either. Well,

Not really.

You know what I’ve told you. You know

What you’ve pieced together from my stories

Like a jigsaw puzzle. But if I really told you,

If I ever got up the courage. You would like me

Even less.

You don’t know what I’m thinking right now. As much

As that would make it easier. As much as I want you to.

You know my name. That’s true,

But really, what else could I say.

If you knew, would you have wanted me to tell you?

I’m not sure.

You don’t know about the you that I do. The

You that holds my hand and walks on the beach with me and

Makes really good cookies. And if you did,

Well I’m not sure what I’d want you to think.

You see, when I write to you, about you, around you,

I really do want you to read it. But I’m afraid that you wouldn’t know it’s you.

I’m even more afraid that you would.

If you ever did read this, you would probably want to know

That it’s about you. You’d probably want me to write out your name.

An action so simple that all it would take would be a few keys. And

Maybe, I should. But

I’m scared.

Because you…

Well I like you.

And I’m never going to tell you that.

Come with me

take my hand and curl

your fingers around mine.

The road may be dark

but I'll lead the way.

You need not worry,

I have done this many times before-

You know me

all too well.

I will care for you

down this dark and winding path,

lit with broken down street lamps and

lined with cold clouded puddles.

Why do you frown?

I will help you. You need not be afraid.

I will make you better, my friend.

It is alright to ask for help,

I will always be here.

You have a disease,

but that's alright.

I will help you get better.

You are in chaos, my friend,

But I will create order.

I will help you make meticulous rules

So that you never have to worry.

Simply follow the rules,

And you will be fixed.

Getting better will take time,

It’s okay for it to hurt

If it will make you better.

Order is key,

My friend.

Soon, you will be perfect.

Just listen to me.

Your hollow cheeks will shine

With dedication and a smile

As we walk this path together.

You will be everything you have ever dreamed of;

All you need is my order.

Write it down if you need to,

On every piece of paper you can.

You need me.

I will make you better.

No, don’t pull away,

You know what will happen the moment you stop listening.

You remember the last time, don’t you?

When you stopped listening to me?

It didn’t go well, did it?

Don’t even try to pretend you felt alright.

It may hurt to listen to me, but that was worse.

You need me,

And that’s okay, I won’t judge.

Love,

Anna

I will be with you

Till the end.

Things I’ve lost:

my mind

my figure

that one

sock

Those

Miu Miu glasses

Well:

I gave good face

once

I focus on that damn sock:

lost in tangled bedsheets

like the thoughts

on my tripped

up tongue

Gone to the dryer

in heat

like myself:

We are both strung up

to dry

Everytime I think I’ve

Found

the right words

I’m overextended on the metaphors:

I become a meta whore

Well:

Losing your life is a sure path to

Sainthood

Finding a penny’s

A sure sign to do good

And lost socks sit silent

Wherever they go:

Warm heart

Cold feet

with nothing to show

They are standing together

Close enough to hear each others breathing.

Their hands are clasped.

Fingers intertwined

Like the branches of loondi trees that have grown too close together

and need to be seperated.

Their bare feet warm the grass.

Soft toes float like pebbles in a stream

Tied down not by anchored plants

But by heat floating off of their bodies.

The warm starlight gleams yellow across their faces

Echoed by the rivers of constellations in their eyes.

They look far out

Eyes scanning the mountains below

With their flitting purple birds diving low above the deep red grass

To smell tall yellow flowers growing blue in the late season.

Sounds ring out all around them

From the gentle burble of streams

and the tender bending of gleaming leaves to the gentle breeze.

Their masks soft whirr humming like the wings of the smallest insects

The ones that are barely larger thair their palms.

They turn to each other now, smiling from ear to ear,

And a tinkling sound fills the air like a sound long forgotten.

They are so alone here

The only things to have walked upright on these mountains

For a long while.

Indeed,

It has been a long time

since everyone left.

It was my first time in a canoe.

It was a green Discovery 16 by Old Town. He traded a motorcycle for it in 91. It had seen thousands of river miles, from the mountains of the north to the coastal plains of the south. He even took it to the open ocean a time or two at the end of some week long adventures by himself.

There was webbing that he had done by hand, stretched across the middle gunwales. Beneath the nylon was where he'd put an inflatable air bladder for whitewater.

"If you do well with me this weekend, we'll hit the Natahala before the end of the summer," he promised. "We're going to see a couple of little Class II's on our trip, believe it or not. I'll let you know what to watch out for and how to move."

"I'll take point," he continued. "You do the steering. I'll give commands, let's practice real quick."

I sat in the back of the boat, getting a feel for it. He sat up in the front, boonie hat in place, sunglasses lashed on like he'd done this a hundred times.

He had.

"Hard left!"

I put my back into it, and the nose turned nearly 90 degrees in an instant.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed, laughing.

"What, did I do something wrong?"

"Hell no, kid. Dang! I'm not used to having someone who can move the whole damned boat like that. That's great! Let's try a few more."

He gave more commands, and the boat responded instantly.

"We're going to be fine, man. Just relax and enjoy the trip. We'll do some fishing in a little while."

I settled in, and he found a station that came in clearly. The whole boat acted like an amplifier for the little $20 waterproof radio he had lashed to the gear webbing. Tracy Chapman, whom I had never heard before, created the soundtrack of our adventure.

He occupied a strange space in my life. He was a former teacher, but a current friend. He was a former coach, but a current mentor. World History was his subject, and I was his star pupil. Defensive line was his specialty when he met me, and he tried to recruit me for a position on his team. In the end, I was more valuable as an offensive lineman, being larger than most men and all of my peers. He first noticed me when we were traveling to an away game on an old schoolbus, and I was reading The Prince while the rest of the team was playing grabass or shooting spitballs.

He took me under his wing. He taught me how to navigate the waters of a river I had known all my life, but never really knew until I'd paddled its length from one end to the other. He helped me navigate the more turbulent waters of adolescent women and social ladders. He hosted me at his house, had me over for dinner, welcomed me into his home and into his family.

He taught me to box.

He occupied a place in my life somewhere between father and older brother. At barely thirty years old, he had already seen the world in the Peace Corps. Originally, he was a journalist; the woman he ended up marrying anchored him in my little part of the world. He was one of the youngest teachers on staff, so that put him at having more in common with the students than it did his peers.

When he saw me, he saw himself.

Several times in the summer months, we took a trip along that river. Camping on sandbars and eating what was caught (but always prepared with PopTarts and canned chili in case things went sideways) we explored tea-colored waters and alligator slides. There was never much speaking on those paddles, because we didn't need to do a lot of talking. The silence was comfortable, when it wasn't being broken by Tracy Chapman or Alanis.

He never gave career advice, but he did tell me something that stuck.

"You have your life ahead of you. You're young. You need to leave before you decide that this is home. You need to go, before you stay, because you can always come back."

I did.

I haven't floated in that river since, and I did the Nantahala on my own.