I would like to inform all of you that “gingerly” should not, grammatically, be allowed to exist as an adverb. It has no corresponding adjective, for Apook’s sweet sake!

One can not give a “ginger” hug.

One can, however, give *A* ginger a hug, though.
And should.

don’t give up, okay?
do not fail
inside or upward,
please
mind the scaffolding
and the threads,
yes?
time remains yet to
be lowered
hips and haunches
into the sighting
of love
that first eyeing
in that dramatically
convenient moment
and there is still time
to woo
and be wooed
until the whole
damn
world
is woobegone.

so take this time
in which you’re to wait
to tell the ones you love
that you love them
and
show it to them
every chance you get.

love is the lightest thing,
the easiest thing in the world,
until it isn’t.
we must prevent ourselves from
warring each other strongly
in revolt
in defense,
in spite of the suppressing odds,
but let’s fight like hell
to stay afloat
in the romance.

decisions were made
are made
constantly
and friends and lovers
were lost
left
you:
left you.

you have everything, now.
I challenge you to keep it.

Their relationship, if you can call it that, started over a compass misunderstanding; so while she could tell direction, he was left moving in circles. She would never agree to this description, of course. Instead, she would insist that they were just on different paths with different destinations.

At least he’d occasionally appreciate, re-realize, that their compatibility wouldn’t be ruined by any boredom-induced likenesses. Sometimes he’d paint for her the personal growth that he foresaw for their future selves, should they both commit to the work of love. Write her poetry.

She had a wall full of paintings—a closet full of poetry.

I guess, she’d think, I should respect his opinions more. Him more.
I guess, she’d think, I should couch my pragmatic, rigid nature and give in to my inherent hypersensitivity.
I guess, she’d think, I should be more gentile. After all, she’d remind herself, the world is rough for realists.

To be honest, though—for as far up in the clouds as her head was, she was an equal distance withdrawn. It’s possible that they were both too distracted to notice or care, as often is the case when two people stop talking and start touching. Ashamed as she was to admit, her side of the relationship failed to advance past a sexual attraction. She defended herself in reminding her family—her friends, her cats—that he was just as focused on a forced sense of whimsy and romance.

And this was how their relationship proceeded, with the exception of a few memorable moments where they were able to see eye to eye.

[big thanks to Amanda for writing half of this. <3]

the grass doesn’t look any greener,
I confess,
	but I think I’ll hop fence
	       I think I’ll slow down
		    hide my face,
 		    muffle the complacent
		                 sounds.
	the scaffolding here can’t hold us
		now
          we’re fostering support
                     without preparing for the floor
                             to give out.
     and I’ll pace!
         and I’ll pace!
             and I’ll pace!
     and I’ll wear the spots where
		I want the wear;
	tear at the walls until
	they’re drywall-bare—

Sometimes life is so infuriating and it comes to haunt you in sidewalk playing cards and mid-morning poker chips
                                 and you’d think it might get easier with years to read the signs
                                                                             —between the lines—
                                 but it’s never any easier to relieve these suggestive fears.
The world, it’s tilting. It’s going too fast.
The days are too tiring, too uncomfortable.
Too tight. Too big. 

   and aren’t you insulted?
           aren’t you going to cry?
           aren’t you going to make a scene?

   and
   aren’t
   I
   ashamed?

A lot of things happened.
	Have happened.
	Are happening.
The goal is to find the good-enoughs, but when they’re all so far away it’s so easy to fall through the fingers of the--
       Coltish-young things keep cowed contact and still,
                       I’m remissive,
                              unconditional,
                                        and fully functional,
           though  admittedly somewhat rusted.
      It takes a real kick in the chest,
                    a not entirely literal
                        strike of the heart
         to instill the sort of distraught,
distrust, distaste for
you:
famished, forgiving, faithful:
	you are all my lions

          I’m pretty sure, I’m sure of it:
the grass doesn’t look any greener,
               but I think I’ll sleep with my truth
                              in the weeds.

Paul: You know what wrong with you, Miss Whoever-You-Are? You’re chicken. You got no guts. You’re afraid to say, “Okay, life’s fact.” People do fall in love. People do belong to each other, because that’s the only chance anybody’s got for real happiness. You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing. You’re terrified somebody’s going to stick you in a cage. Well baby, you’re already in the cage. You built it yourself. And it’s not bounded by tulip, Texas, or Somaliland. It’s wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

This winter’s muse has been lazy, friends. Lazy and inaccessible. This is the time of year when one is supposed to be sticking his foot in through my window or door or eyes or ears and saying something terribly witty and despairing.