january third.

You’re in the air, flying across

the Atlantic,

flying across gulfs and streams,

some of my favorite countries.

I had a dream that you emailed me.

Sentiments often repeated, I’ve found,

lose their gilded skins, and checking

my inbox was disappointing.

And now I wake up next to your facsimile,

brown eyes and stubbled jaw.

His snores are loud enough to create an avalanche.

your eyes are broken.

Your eyes are broken:

big, brown, sad.

The half-smile that lies on your lips

never quite reaches them.

I don’t sleep at night

because it’s those eyes I see

in the dark.

They are haunting, and beautifully so.

When I catch them with mine,

they plead.

Are you aware?

They must be deceiving you.

They're deceiving me.

blue.

Blue, black ink dots and lines my

palms, my fingers,

evidence of a diligent distraction.

Words swirl and poke, page upon page

until there is room for nothing more.

Tomorrow, the spots will be gone

and new ink will meander

lazily unto my skin.

New words, sometimes just repetitions

of former ones,

find their way on the blank pages,

an example of their dogged loyalty.

They twist and twirl, structuring themselves

into phrases, rhymes,

flowing and flying from the end of

my pen.

ethan and mattie.

Evergreen and laundry,

scents I’ve tied you to.

Clean, fresh-the

first snow of the season.

The flakes float down and

land on our heads, huddled

and making dragon’s breath.

Our scarves are wrapped tightly

and we’re wearing dull

winter coats; never looking

more radiant.

My hands are chapped, but

it doesn’t matter because yours

are calloused from hard work.

We are Ethan and Mattie.

Both coy and shy, yet we are

simultaneously lit

and burning, melting the snow

as it makes a final, futile effort to stick.

heathcliff.

This is not about love.
Remember that.
This is about me
and sometimes you.

I have just reached twenty-two.
What an unglamourous age filled with questions
and doubts.
Heartache arrives in droves when I realize
I have not achieved my goals.

You wished me a happy birthday
but did not use my name.
Casual, like our acquaintance.
I am a cowardess and you, a coward.

We understand how the other works because

we are one another.

You are me and I am you

and yet, we are two

worlds apart.

raw.

The sky crumbles around our heads.

You watch as the blues and blacks morph into

a strange combination

and I reach my curious hand out to catch a star or two.

You whisper that you expected it to be different,

more tragic, more romantic.

“But it’s not,” I say. “It just is what it is.”

The stars in my palm begin to burn,

and I release them.

They fall with a jingle from my freshly raw flesh.

the leaves.

Last leaves of fall crash down around our heads

and I wonder if the sky is falling.

You claim that it can’t, and glance at your watch.
It’s not quite time.

waiting for january.

I’ll wait

because it’s what I do best.

Remember, though, that

I can’t wait forever.

January will come,

and soon, so no

more dawdling, please.

You said that you won’t

be dancing,

I said that was just

fine.

I lied.

You couldn’t ever catch

the disappointed inflection

in my voice because you don’t

wait for my words like I wait

for yours.

stupid mouth.

My sweet tooth has gotten me again
but this time there’s no easy fix.
There are only two choices:
complete extraction
or
scooping out the pulp
and capping with a shiny new exterior.

But which to choose?

To have you removed so completely
is by far the easiest route,
the pain is greater, magnified by thousands
in comparison to its current state,
but it will ease and ebb away over time.

To replace you. Yes,
this option is also tempting.
Perhaps I would not be the only sufferer,
but you would feel, if only minutely,
a bit of the cross I bear.

My throat grows closed in indecision,
just give me a moment to gnaw on each option.

mon père.

You've risen from your shallow
grave
like a phoenix from the ashes,
or perhaps, Lazarus.

I've mourned you.

Have you no ears to hear,
no eyes to see my sobbed tears?

And now you tell me to grieve
once more,
and promise to make this time the last.

The finality of your words shakes
my very core,
the urn that once held you is spilled
onto the floor, waiting to be refilled.

These sutured wounds tear and
rip,
my blood, your blood,
slipping from them.

Together, we're warriors;
you on the field, I in my heart.
You would argue that your effort
is more, more courageous, more valiant,
but I disagree.

You will die fully for your cause,
but I will spend the rest of my life
mourning your double death.

sondre.

Your voice reminds me of
Paris in the fall.
Smooth and sweet,
orange around the edges.
It holds my hand at dusk
and leads me down cramped
side-streets and into candle-lit
restaurants.
You never whispered "J'adore"
into my ear, but like flowing wine,
you make my head feel heavy,
my limbs dizzy.
I picture your pea-coat, your
green scarf swimming in the breeze.
Under the Eiffel Tower,
we're illuminated.

waterfalls.

I climbed in, double checking
that the knob was turned to
the right, a tiny red H now in the middle.
Not enough.
Half an inch further, my skin turning pink,
becoming tender, but it's still inadequate.
I can almost feel my pores opening
and my dissappointment stumbling from each.
The mirror must be completely fogged, tiny beads
of condensation chasing each other to the bottom.
More the right and thick steam clings
to my lungs and my breathing is labored.
At once it's too much and not enough.
I clench my hands open, closed. Open again
and shut my eyes.
Hotter still, that screaming red H now occupies
the place formerly held by the little blue C.
My feet and legs are nearly crimson,
my blood coloring the skin nicely underneath.
I cannot, WILL NOT, move from under this
burning waterfall.
In short, I've read the letter you left in the door,
and I couldn't agree more.

five works in progress.

1.
Sometimes I wonder if insanity has crept
up on me.
So sly and quiet, it sinks into my skin like
a vapor
or I inhale it like Anthrax.
If it has at last come,
I wish it would wrap its strong arms
around me and contort
my body into a Full Nelson, if only
to get my attention.
This terrorist of the mind allows me
to believe that the shadows hold more
than just the illusions of dark
and light.
But, perhaps, they do. Perhaps I am
not insane at all.

2.
We'll dance.
Somewhere in the distance the sun will
finally appear, sneaking slowly,
slinking in a hesitant dance of his own.
Our hips will sway until an
ache settles into our bones,
at which time our wits will
continue what our bodies cannot.
Back and forth, we will hurl new thoughts
toward one another, hoping our
influence has been caught and applied.

3.
I glance, no, not glance; more like search,
every possible place that I think I'd find you.
And what would I say if we happened upon
one another?
I'd waste your time, surely, searching
your face after every witty line I
pull from my
arsenal.

4.
I have decided against you.
My mind has built a wall,
encasing you inside.
Never should I have ventured toward you,
knowing deep the one-sided, disastrous
outcome.
Foolishly I sought you, though I knew you
would never seek me.
So, I've given you up.
But what's this?
Your tiny voice speaks from inside
the tomb I've placed you,
offering hope, offering guidance.
But the mortar is nearly dry and
if I tear the walls down now,
they can't (or won't)be rebuilt.

5.
Is this how it is to drown?
Wave after wave crashes,
one upon another, lapping around
my head.
No need to put my ear in an over sized
shell when there's a kind of
thundering roar
each time my mouth opens.
I've made an attempt to grasp the
sharp, obsidian rocks, but my hands
come away raw and bloodied,
salty water stinging the wounds.

for us.

Grad school, grad school,
grad school, travel?
Peace Corps?
Let's just get married
and have a baby,
to hell with all the rest.
No, that won't do.
I'd like to, love to actually,
but we both know that you
can't be latched to a dull woman
with sagging, milky breasts.
Not just yet, anyway.
Besides, I need to find me,
then I'll see if you fit.
I don't need a bouncing eight pounds
four ounce swaddling to tend to
between the wash and cooking your dinner.
Would it have your eyes
or mine?
I could be climbing a mountain in Switzerland,
wearing a parka, reflective sunglasses, and chapstick.
Or I'd be making love to a fiery Brazilian, shaking my
hips to and fro, to and fro.
But even in the midst of those things, I'd probably
think of you, wishing you were there.
So, I'm staying for us. You hear me?
For us.

meeting by the tree.

How unexpected is this
recent turn of events?
Even you have to admit
that your breath puffed
out in short, baby gasps,
hands balled in fists at your sides.
I thought my heart stopped
until it beat so fast that I was sure
the thud-thud-thud would
catch in your ears.
My voice spoke in a strange
soprano, speaking casually
about trivial things.
Inside, conversation bubbles
erupted from my thoughts, but
I burst them before they could squeak
from my lips.
It's better that you're unaware.

sting.

The Police squeak through my mind,
"Don't stand, don't stand so, don't stand
so close to me."
But really.

My comfort zone is being severely
compromised
by your lack of intelligent
conversation, the inane dribble
that tumbles out of your mouth
in rapid succession.
For the sake of all within earshot

STOP.

dear elton john.

Eight years old, my one shining day of the year.
But you weren’t there.
All I wanted was to hear you sing
“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” or
perhaps a rousing round of “Benny and the Jets.”
You could cut my cake and sneak a piece
before you left in your gleaming limousine.
I wouldn’t mind.
I waited for you by the front door for hours,
expecting you to roll up with an entourage.
Mr. Fantastic, you didn’t have the decency to
call or write. Perhaps you’re not as Fantastic as
I thought.

babel.

We babble like babies,
saliva seeping from between our lips.
I can’t understand a word you say,
and you don’t care enough to try.
Yet this continues, this mediocre
game of cat and mouse.
My grueling effort is useless.
If I walk away now, I might
retain, regain my sanity.
Any longer, and I’ll be cooing.

juanita.

These purple flowers are
nothing extraordinary, arriving
every Spring like clock-work.
Four tiny petals thrown onto
a bone thin stem,
but they remind me of you.
A mini bouquet that you held
firmly in your wrinkled hand,
telling me to think of you when
the purples start to grow.
As if I could ever forget.
They contrast with your green eyes
that mirror mine and the sun
casts a glow on your pale, aging skin.
Red, painted lips smile at me encouragingly,
almost like a photograph.
No, I won’t forget.

you'll love it.

I’d have been like Joseph
with his robe of many colors,
only mine made of silk.
Royal blues and purples that
fade to splashes of red and pink,
cascading silently to the floor,
covering my ankles.
You described it so well,
my mind concocted a picture
of it draping me.
I became Cleopatra, majestic,
regal, coal lining my eyes.
But you were the adder that
deceptively sunk its fangs into
my imagination,
silently watching as the robe pooled
around my feet before you slunk away.

whale songs.

Our breath fogs either side
of this glass pane that
divides my flesh from yours.
My inhale matches your exhale,
but I can’t breathe you in.
My palm reaches for your face,
deflected, leaving a printed streak
on the translucent traitor.
Your eyes yank mine,
expressing what would only sound like
whale songs.
Your frustration seethes, a crescendo
that plateaus to anger and
your words are lost.
One final slam of your fists on
thick glass,
and your rubber soles retreat
while I’m left trying.

you don't.

The doors open and I begin to walk
down an aisle littered with petals.
Step, together, step, together, step.
I’ll make my way eventually.
I catch your eyes as you stand at its end,
they're filled to the brim
with anticipation and wonder,
and I imagine my future shaded
in your blue.
A message travels from my mind to
yours, its tiny molecules traveling above our heads.
I pass your mother, her head held high and tears squeaking
through tiny slits, her hand enveloped with your father’s.
I take my place at the end of the walkway,
moments before cellos and violins are
plucked and strummed.
Father and daughter step together, step together,
and you catch her eyes, smiling the biggest smile I’ve seen in years.
One by one, my dreams exploded like balloons in the stratosphere.
And with that ring, you were wed.

titan tires and the tiny toads.

Bloated and fading,
they dot my path like landmines.
Tiny gray tigerish skins stretch across the gravel
and decay slowly
as tires tread over their smashed skulls.
Sunken eyes and lips that appear to be smiling,
their once red tongues rolled out
like award season red carpets.
I step gingerly, reminding myself that
they were once alive,
that I wouldn’t want rubber soles
stamping on me when I’m gone.
Literally littered, the asphalt becomes
a battleground between the Titan tires
and the tiny toads.

mai.

A gentle mist soothes the soil
after a harsh winter’s ravishment.
We shrug off our heavy hats and scarves,
matching accessories to drab winter grays,
for something more lithe, sleek.
Spring accumulates into larger droplets,
fat and full, never missing my face,
fogging my horn-rimmed glasses.
I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving,
grateful for multi-colored perennials
and waking to the roar of the mighty lawn mower.
Windows sneak open, a tender breeze
inhales and exhales through the screen.
April has vanished and May has come.

drunken demands give way to reservations.

inspired by "Imaginary Love" by Rufus Wainwright

Rain trickles onto the cobblestone
mixing with the smell of expensive champagne
and the biting taste of nicotine.

Schubert stumbles out of an
open window
and glides through the damp night air
inviting us to live for the night,
but only for tonight.

You call a cab, hand hailing through
the fog-pollution haze
and inside we slide,
into your hotel, between Egyptian sheets
but only for tonight.

The concierge knows to call at
seven,
but my limbs will be untangled from
yours by five,
heels clicking against the pavement
by six.